


Protections

by StrivingArtist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF John, BAMF Mary, Canon Compliant, Captivity, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, PTSD, Poor John, Psychological Torture, Romance, Seriously it's gonna be dark, Torture, Violence, early chapters aren't explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After HLV, Moriarty has returned and the game is on once more. Sherlock struggles to counter as Moriarty strikes closer and closer to home, and John is caught in a fight Sherlock is losing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

John had only gotten as far as yelling "Vatican-" when the bombs exploded. Really, he thought he had more time than that. He thought there was time for the codes and that they'd have time to take cover.  _Idiot. Moriarty knows Sherlock's darkest secrets, of course he knows our shout for battle stations_.

That poor girl had died because of him. He'd seen the sniper's light on her chest, he'd tried to warn Sherlock, and he realized his mistake with the prescience of the battlefield. In time to watch it, but not prevent it. He would have sworn he had heard that shot in time to start moving.

He had been knocked off his feet, but not unconscious, just disoriented.  _Injuries? Legs, arms, both moving, I don't feel anything internal, breathing is painful but not limited. You're not dead. Get your eyes open. Now!_  The ex-soldier blocked off the thought of pain and was rising from the ground as his eyes cracked open. Dust was still settling, two of the columns had shattered, but the room seemed unlikely to collapse on itself. A pile of chairs and furniture surrounded him, probably why he wasn't more badly hurt.

As for where the girl had been, there nothing he could look at without gagging.  _Dental records gonna be the only way._ He grimaced and started walking.  _Jesus, they might not even find those. Worse than the IEDs._

Training had taken over as he began to jog towards the last place he has seen Sherlock. Smoke was billowing out the vault ahead of him beginning to cloud the room and burn his throat. He had to get there, make sure he hadn't gone and gotten himself killed. Sherlock had been between the two blasts, first the vest lashed around the girl, then whatever had been placed inside the vault. Incendiary bombs were most likely based on the target. Either was capable of killing someone at close range. Incendiaries were capable of it long after the initial blast. He needed to get them out before the smoke got too thick.

"John!"

He whipped about, somehow Sherlock was already up, seemingly uninjured, and striding towards him. His shout was impatient, like he had been yelling and John hadn't heard. The detective looked him over, pulled something from the doctor's shoulder, clapped a piece of fabric over John's face, and without explanation started dragging him towards the staircase. The pair was barely halfway up when firefighters began rushing down, clad in suits and breathing masks.  _Lestrade got the message then, good_. The thickening black smoke that engulfed them was only going to get worse until they made it outside.

The world lurched around him suddenly.

John was struggling to think clearly.  _Something on the rag? No. The smoke? Concussion?_

They reached the two story foyer of the bank. The smoke abated a bit. John could actually see his friend beside him once more. The idiot had only bothered with one mask. Sherlock could barely have breathed since they started running.

_What the hell is going on?_

John's world was beginning to go grey, narrowing to a pin-point ahead of him. He stumbled once, twice, and then Sherlock was pulling John's arm over his shoulder. As cold air hit his face, new hands, new arms wrapped around him, and Sherlock pulled away coughing heavily.

As his mind cleared, thanks he was sure to the oxygen mask over his face, the voices became distinct once more. "Because I did not get drugged."

"You're going to Hospital too."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"After."

"After what?"

"I need to get inside that vault. The firemen should have it cleared in less than an hour."

"My God Sherlock. You were just in an explosion, let my boys look at this one for you. You can come back after."

"Lestrade, do be quiet."

John reached up to the shelf above him in the back of the ambulance, and dragged himself to sitting. Sherlock turned and his eyes picked up that intense otherness they got when he was deducing. John tried to maintain a look of determination before he started arguing, but was cut off.

"Yes John, you have to go to the hospital, you were knocked unconscious-"

"N'wasn't"

"-but more important is the drug you were hit with just before the explosion. The dart has already been sent to Molly, but you will need to be taken there as well so it's effects can be counteracted.

"Shehlah-Sher-Sh-Sherl"  _Why isn't my mouth working_? The detective turned back, waiting. "Wha-?"

"I stepped behind a column." John frowned, more confused. "I did hear you, John." With that he spun and walked back to the fire chief. Greg shoved the EMT back into the ambulance and slammed the doors.

* * *

When John Watson found his way back to consciousness, it was without the grating haze that had been building since exiting the bank with Sherlock. He was in a private room at Bart's. No ventilator, but a heart monitor on his chest and two IVs, one per arm.  _I'm breathing fine, so I guess it's not smoke inhalation. But no meds on the stand, just fluids. So why? Ah, that makes more sense._  The dialysis machine was humming as it cleaned his blood beside him. The pain was still present though.

"Hullo?" he called, thinking he had heard someone behind the curtain. "Molly?"

"Oh! John. You're awake."

"Yeah, do you want to tell me whats going on?"

"Yes, uh, well we haven't identified what was on the dart that hit you, so they wanted to play it safe. It doesn't seem like it was a high dose of anything, or particularly toxic, more like a mild sedative. You've been asleep for about nine hours, but that's partly the explosion. They didn't want to cause a reaction so no pain meds until it gets cleared. Mary came by with Mycroft a few hours ago, she was here for a long time, but then the hospital started to get busy, so, well you know." John nodded. "Oh, and Sherlock texted me. Apparently there isn't much left of your phone, so he sent a new one over for you."

She held out a mobile, a match to his last one, and then set it on the bed when he didn't grab it after a moment.

"How much longer do they want me to stay?"

"A few days."

"Ha, no. How long before I can leave?"

"They just took another blood sample to the lab. A few hours." She smiled, that strange strangled smile of hers. "You have some mild burns on your hands and face-from the blast I assume, and you've a few cuts. You are going to have a headache soon, if you don't already, and visible or not you're bruised head to toe."

"I am a doctor, Molly."

"I know, but, you can bad as him John, and I just wanted to remind you that, well that you might need more than a night's sleep before you chase after him again."

John grinned wanly.

"I'll come visit again later, John."

As she left he turned towards the mobile sitting on the bed. He hadn't wanted to admit how much he hurt, and since he couldn't see a bag of IV meds, he knew that they weren't willing to cross drugs until whatever was in his system had cleared. He'd known that before Molly had said.

Knowing didn't stop him feeling like he had been hit by a train.

It took a few deep breaths to shut down the part of his head that was muttering non stop about the pain. It took a few more for him to acknowledge that the headache was not going away.

"Jeee-sus" He sighed to the ceiling. This was the first time he had been stationary for so long since this started.

It had been just over six weeks since Sherlock had shot Magnusson in the head to protect Mary. Six weeks since his forced exile had been aborted by the dramatic return of Jim Moriarty. One month since a bomb had gone off on the runway of Heathrow airport. One month since Moriarty had sent that phone with that taunting, threatening, awful invitation. An invitation that Sherlock found irresistible. Moriarty had invited the East Wind out to play, and Sherlock was more than happy to oblige him; at first.

Much like the game he had played before, Moriarty was toying with the detective, giving him just enough information to solve the puzzle before time ran out. Unlike last time, the crimes were all upcoming not in the past. All they had to go off was what that madman gave them.

The first two attacks Sherlock solved, just. The bomb in the tube station had been luck, not that the prat would admit it. Luck that they found the answer, and luck that they found the bomb before it detonated.

Then came the third. At first John was almost feeling confident, but twelve hours went by with no explanation for the drawing and the message. Sherlock was so far into his own world John couldn't have forced the man to rest with anything shy of a sedative. They didn't start to unravel the puzzle until two hours before the deadline. It wasn't enough time.

_That student did more than we did._

A fourteen year old was wearing the bomb. He was pushed out of a car in front of his younger brother's school during an assembly; he had saved more people than they had.

Under orders to walk inside the gymnasium he had refused. John had seen the security footage. The young man stood for a moment, talking to someone who wasn't there. A point of light appeared on his chest. He had hesitated, then turned and run towards the carpark. Six people died.  _Better than it could have been. What did Sherlock estimate? Five hundred dead? Jesus, I had never seen him like that._ He'd failed, he knew it, and despite what he said it was obviously eating at him. Though whether it was guilt or outrage at Moriarty besting him, John was not sure.

The fourth, well, Sherlock was determined. Moriarty's plot was unravelled, a cordon was cinched around Pentonville, nothing happened. John managed to get him back to the flat after that day. With a few threats he got a meal into him, and got him into bed.

That was when John's world had changed.

He had barely seen Mary since Heathrow. Sherlock had needed him almost non stop. Not seeing her husband had not stopped Mary Watson from helping him. She had done research on every case, sending blasts of texts as she found something new. Half of Sherlock's lab equipment was sitting in John's kitchen now. None of the three of them had spoken a word about her past, Sherlock had just turned to her during the first puzzle, and asked for every location within London that fit his parameters. She had been helping since.

John liked it more than if she had been running after them, slowed down by how large she had become. Her in the line of direct danger would be more than he could handle. Her being nearby danger because of him was bad enough.

As he left the cab he could see something stuck to his door, probably a delivery note or one of those obnoxious flyers that were always getting crammed into the handle. When he got closer, that been obviously wrong. The envelope was stuck to the door with a short blade. "The Watsons" His hand went towards it, then hesitated, Sherlock's voice in his head insulting him. So, he snapped a few quick photos, pulled the envelope out without touching the knife, and stepped inside. He still remembered the bitter taste in his mouth as he called for Mary. Thankfully she answered quickly, stepping out of the bedroom. Turning his attention back down, he opened the envelope as Mary watched, confusion on her brow giving way to anger a moment later.

Their favorite picture from her ultrasound a few days earlier was inside, scrawled over it in red,  **She's cute.**

Sherlock was there twenty minutes later, but harassing the OB/GYNs office staff turned up nothing. He had grabbed the detective that night, pulling him into the kitchen and started yelling. The memory still brought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks. How angry he had gotten, how much blame he had foisted onto this man that had grown increasingly tense during the diatribe, how after a few minutes Sherlock had interrupted him. "Mycroft" was all he had said at first, but then his phone came out, and he did something John had not ever expected to see.

"Mycroft, and I need something from you. Please."

John's flush of embarrassment at the memory intensified. He had never heard Sherlock's voice unstrung from its usual net of acrimony. Yes, he hesitated a fraction of a second to say please, but it was said. Mycroft must have understood the depth of meaning it conveyed, because just two hours later there he was, trailed by a second car containing Anthea. John had kissed Mary goodbye, and promised that he would be back with her before the baby came. Then she was gone, hidden as well as the British government was able. It had removed a huge part of the anxiety that had been building inside John.

He and Sherlock had never spoken of it, but John knew his friend had put himself in his brother's debt, deeply so. If there was something Sherlock enjoyed less, John did not know what it was. Mary texted him the next day from wherever it was Mycroft had placed her, telling him to find a box she had left in the closet. He had of course, expecting photos, or letters.

He hadn't expected what he could only think of as the equivalent to his medical bag, but for an international criminal. Three guns, silencers, a couple of tiny GPS trackers, a set of epi pens minutely labelled with their contents, several of which he had to look up, and several manilla folders. Each had a passport with his face and someone else's name. Each had had a packet of vital records, and each had a few thousand pounds in that country's currency.

Several hours passed before he put himself back together and brought the lot of it back to Baker Street. It had been Sherlock who had pointed out that it had been assembled before the wedding. He also mentioned it was a kit for him alone in case an enemy came after her.

It made him angry, but reminded him how much she loved him.

John exhaled some of his stress, still staring back at the history that had brought him to this hospital bed.

Three more events in the last month.

Two he stopped.

This last one, an attack on a bank, specifically the vault below the building, they couldn't stop. Sherlock had been sure it was a heist not a bombing, so there they went to try to catch whoever was sent. Anyone Moriarty sent was of interest to Sherlock. There were too many questions he wanted to ask.

They wouldn't have gone in otherwise. Well, he had asked Sherlock about a bombing in particular, Sherlock had been confident in his assessment.  _Damn his confidence._

That young girl, that was what had told them it was different. That it wasn't a heist. That Sherlock was wrong.

Tears were streaming down her face, her hands were cuffed behind her back: she couldn't have gotten out of the vest even if the sniper had not been targeting her chest. A very young girl with blonde hair.  _No, I can't focus on this right now. Phone, messages, Sherlock, Mary._

He finally picked up the phone, cramming the memory of that girl aside.

Messages.

 **Records were destroyed. No evidence.**  
 **SY to attempt recovery. Unlikely  
** **SH**

 **Mary has been informed. Will visit  
** **SH**

 **No new contact. No new case yet.**  
 **Text when conscious.  
** **SH**

 **Molly says you are on dialysis.**  
 **Text when conscious.  
** **SH**

 **Try to come visit me John. They wouldn't let me stay with you. contact Mycroft.  
** **Love you - Mary**

 **Why are you not conscious yet?  
** **SH**

 **May have a lead re: ultrasound.**  
 **Text when conscious.  
** **SH**

 **Text when Conscious.  
** **SH**

He started to laugh, but cut it off when the motion hurt his entire body. Either something had happened, or, being emotionally a machine, this was Sherlock's version of showing concern. This was the first time he had actually been blown up following the detective. John took pity on his friend.

 **Conscious.**  
 **What's happened?  
** **JW**

Finally his doctor came in with his lab results. Young man, probably fresh out of residency, so John knew his situation couldn't be too dire.  _Sherlock is rubbing off on me._ The doctor had come with good news, his bloods were clear.

"So?"

"So now we can get you some pain meds. We can get you disconnected from the machine." John gestured to the IVs and Doctor Andrews, obviously intimidated, buzzed a nurse. "You'll be here overnight for observation at least. I'd prefer you not leave until the lab identifies what was given to you."

"I'd prefer otherwise."

"Hospital policy is -"

"Voluntary discharge can circumvent policy."

"I cannot advise you -"

"I can fill out the paperwork, or I can just leave, Doctor." The mobile buzzed.

 **221B.  
** **SH**

 **They haven't discharged me yet.  
** **JW**

 **Make them.  
** **SH**

"John- _Doctor_  Watson, you know perfectly well you'd recommend the same."

"Most likely." John started taking out his IVs.

"You haven't even had pain meds."

"I'll be fine." He said, swallowing the lie, and clinging to the thought of the kit he had at the flat. The Bart's doctor shook his head, muttering about doctors being "the worst kind of patients" and reached into his coat pocket, grabbing a bottle and a prescription pad.

The mobile buzzed again.

 **Molly is bringing you the forms.  
** **SH**

 **I am handling this. Would you relax?  
** **JW**

 **Unlikely.  
** **SH**

John frowned.

Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man, but his intolerance against the needs of others did not often apply to those in hospital beds.

 **You do recall why I am here?**  
 **The explosion? Unknown poison? Ring a bell?  
** **JW**

He realized after sending that Sherlock may have just admitted to concern.

"John, Sherlock asked me to bring you these." Molly handed him the folder of forms. John glanced at his phone again. No answer, and Sherlock had been on rapid response. "You should at least stay until we finish the labs. It won't take much longer."

"Nope."

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Once he had established that he intended to leave within the hour, and once Molly had made it clear to Andrews and the subsequent nurses that there would be no talking him out of it, it took little time to get away. Although, as he looked over the discharge paperwork, it was easily the most sarcastic set of notes he had ever seen put to paper. "Against recommendation" ... "might want to consider stronger pain medication" …. "declined Dr suggested pain treatment" …. "recommend psychological evaluation" John was not inclined to disagree with that last one as the cab hit a bump and pain nearly knocked him out.

Outside the flat, he paused, the door knocker was aligned. Thanks to Sherlock's endless diatribes, he frowned.

"Hello Mycroft." He announced as he walked up the stairs.

"He's more observant than you give him credit for Sherlock." John reached the doorway in time to see Sherlock's smirk.

"What do you have?" John dropped the bag and folder from the hospital on the table and reached for a glass of water.

"One of the receptionists was found dead."

"From Mary's doctor?"

"Inside her flat. Single shot to the head. High powered rifle based on the entry wound. Dead at least a week. Lestrade's people found her, his people tainted the scene. Likely conclusion is that Moriarty had her killed. Either she was the source or she knew who the source was." John nodded. "Mycroft's people are looking into it."

"Not you?" He hesitated at that, then dismissed the reluctance. This was his wife, and child. If it was going to be investigated, he wanted the best to be working on it. That meant Sherlock.

"I believe we can trust the British Government to go through their filing cabinets. Files are their sovereign territory." More nodding. "They should have them within a few hours." Sherlock took a step closer, and John saw him start deducing. Ducking his head down really did not stop Sherlock's game, only delayed him for a moment and forced him to affect a bizarre lean and head tilt. It took him a moment, and John attempted to busy himself getting a glass of water. Whatever his observations found, he kept to himself. His brother had the decency to perform his deduction more subtly.

"No ideas yet on why?"

Mycroft spun his umbrella in his hand, "Perhaps Moriarty was simply sending you his glad tidings in his own peculiar way, John."

"Mycroft, text me when you have something." Sherlock handed his brother an envelope and the Holmes boys stared at each other for a few seconds.

At the moment, John had lost his patience with both of them. One was making light of a threat by quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world. The other harassing him out of his hospital bed over information that required no action from him.  _Does he think I needed to be told in person? Did he think I was going to go after them tonight?_

Sherlock shoved the bottle of pills against the untouched glass of water and dropped into his chair. John joined him in his own chair a moment later, pills working their way towards the pounding in his head and the impressive ache that flared with movement. Silence held for a while. Heavy fog was rising outside. In the dark it was crowding around the windows, making the street lamps little more than glow in the haze.

Sherlock twitched a bit.

"What?"

"Molly hasn't texted yet."

"Yeah so?"

"They haven't identified the toxin on the dart yet. Just that eliminates all of the more common options. Not that I would expect Moriarty to employ anything common. I suppose it could be a compound of several unusual sedatives, but the real question is why? Slow acting sedative deployed just before blowing you up with a bomb. Two bombs. No, there must be something missing. The sedative effects could be secondary. The primary focus of the dart could have been to put something in motion in the future, rather than the immediate future. Hmm." Up went his hands, steepling under his chin. Staring across at John as thoughts flashed over his face, he was poised, about to jump up.

"You need to get rest Sherlock."

"Case isn't over yet, John. Pieces are still missing. "

"It's over."

"The toxin-"

"Didn't have any impact. It doesn't matter."

"You being dosed with an unknown substance doesn't matter? Excellent, this should open up all manner of experiments I would like to try."

_Great, he's in one of these moods again. Alright, new approach._

"When was the last time you ate? Three days?"

"Slows me down, John."

"Case ended, you can take the time to eat a bloody sandwich."

"Out of food."

"Take-away."

"Closed."

"Right. Christ, Sherlock, If I get you a damn sandwich will you just eat it?"

_Impudent. That's the look he gets._

"Fine _."_

So up John got, back to the kitchen where there was plenty of food, thank you very much.  _Bloody. Oblivious. Helpless. Twat of a man. Can't even make a damn sandwich. What? Did he think Mycroft is going to mock his addressing basic human needs? Idiot. Bread knife? Ah. Probably best I don't contemplate smacking him with this. There, that counts as a sandwich._

"Eat." was all he said as he tried to sit back down without the pain overwhelming him again. The medicine had yet to dissipate the ache.

The detective sat perched, nibbling at the sandwich like a bird, continuing to watch his former- _current since I can't go back to me and Mary's place-_ flatmate.

John would have preferred to go to bed and try to sleep off the pounding in his skull, but Sherlock had  _that look._  So he waited while his friend analyzed and postulated theories and thought, all of it silently. However, the doctor's hovering presence and disapproving countenance kept the man nibbling as he thought.

 _He's probably going over the bank. Whatever was destroyed in that vault must be driving him mad. Ah, yeah, there's that twitch, something's gotten under his skin. Is this the whole reason he made me come back early? So I could sit here like his skull? Insufferable git. I'll need to talk to Mycroft about visiting Mary._ Anthea had brought him a handwritten note at one point. Apparently Mary was not willing to say anything that could be used to find her in a text or call. She had to be going a bit crazy there. Wherever there was. John knew she had helped Sherlock track the kidnap victim, but none of them had not caught that the daughter had the same name, and almost no presence in the records.

 _No. Still am not going to think about that. Think about Sherlock. Good, that's nearly two bites from anyone else. I wonder if I can convince him to drink one of those concentrated protein smoothies I used to have in my e-rations. Probably not. I'll order some in anyway. Might be able to find something similar at the shops. God my head hurts. Damn drugs. Damn me for refusing the narcotics. It's not like Sherlock is going to pinch them. First, I know he prefers something stronger, and second we've got a case, sort of, which_ _ **is**_   _his something stronger. Ow. Doesn't look like I'll hardly get sleep tonight._

_Huh, that's there that head tilt again. What the hell is he deducing now? That I've got a jackhammer in my skull? Oh, yes, very clever Sherlock. Well done, two bombs, unknown drug, how remarkable that you deduced I've got a headache._

John was so enjoying his little scripted conversation he was caught off guard when Sherlock spoke.

"You have a headache." John was too stunned at his own accuracy to respond. "Why did you refuse the opioids? They would be far more effective at offsetting your-discomfort."  _Discomfort? What was he about to say?_

"Didn't want them."

"Why?"

_Really?_

"Slows me down" he said sarcastically.  _But not a lie._

A bit more of the sandwich vanished.

Another bizarre head tilt. His eyes had an intimidating intensity when he was like this.

"Because of the case? No. The case is at a lull. Following his usual approach, Which we have no reason to suspect he will deviate from, we have at least 34 hours before he begins his next game. You've never shown any proclivity towards recreational use so that isn't it. You have no allergy to be concerned with. So, it was a choice not a necessity. You don't want to be slowed down. You said it sarcastically but you often use sarcasm to mask your real intent. You really don't want to be slowed down." If his head tilted much further John was sure it would just pop off. "Alternately, you were concerned that having opioids in the flat would cause me trouble. Hm. Don't be so simple, this case is far too interesting."

"Going to eat any more of that? Or just planning to collapse midway through the next case?"

"Too slow to save someone?"

_I was too slow at the bank._

"Eat."

Back to silent thought.

Eventually most of the meal was gone, and the remainder was dropped to the side table.

"Too slow to save me? You weren't. Unlike you I took your warning and got behind a column. "

The glare John gave his idiotic friend was one that used to freeze servicemen in place. Sherlock just lifted an eyebrow.

"If you are experiencing guilt over the victim, you should know there was no way for you to have saved her."

"No."

"You believe you need to protect me."

"I just didn't want them, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"I'm sure you'll wake me if we hear anything from Mycroft or the Yard. G'night."

 


	2. Chapter Two

If Sherlock had met someone more infuriatingly normal and simultaneously inexplicable than Dr John Watson, he must have deleted them. As that was unlikely, John remained an outlier.

He watched as his flat mate shoved himself out of the chair and went upstairs.

_Jaw tension: Headache, unsurprising, likely general pain as well. Hands clenched: military training in play, doesn't want to acknowledge pain. Alternative: anger or frustration. Shoulder limiting arm movement._

_Spinning his wedding ring, preoccupation with Mary. Likely caused by similarity of victim to his image of his daughter. Likely to continue distracting him. Unlikely to be deleted. Will need to reassure him of Mary's safety._

_Single glance back. Concern? Why? I ate the sandwich. Unfinished business? More likely. John cut off the conversation without answering. The last theory therefore is the most likely truth._

_John is concerned that pain medication would slow him down making him unable to keep up with and protect me._

_Unnecessary._

It had never been required that John would need to save him. There  _had_  been instances where he had shortened a crisis. The cabbie that first day. The golem. The swimming pool. However, as Sherlock did a cursory examination of his memories of John's behavior, it became clear that John believed he did need to protect Sherlock.

He would need to correct that misunderstanding.

It was far more common that John needed to be protected by Sherlock. His proximity to the doctor put him in nearly permanent danger. The probability of him suffering permanent injury increased with each case. Moriarty and Magnusson had both used him as a proxy, like royal whipping boys. He had been kidnapped. He had been beaten. He had been drugged. He continued to stay by Sherlock's side. It was irrational.

Mind palace then. He steepled his fingers once more, closing his eyes and beginning to tour his memories.

Sherlock had been slowly assembling data regarding his flat mate-wedding aside, that was John's title in the mind palace. It had become a substantial collection. He paused and opened the door on all things John.

The first image that hit him was new. John stumbling towards the fire in the bank yesterday. Beyond a small tremble in his knees he had not looked like a man who had just been hit by bomb blast. And then the echo of emotion that followed.

_Guilt._

He shoved it out of the way along with the image, and stepped inside. He was looking for the best way to clarify his self sufficiency to the doctor. The overwhelming flood of experience to the opposite was discouraging. He had been unable to convince John that he knew how to feed himself, let alone protect himself.

The memories sorted themselves as he looked from side to side. First into memories where John had directly done something for him in a case, or indirectly. Then further, he pulled out the memories where the doctor had been either overly determined or intractable on the subject. Again; now to just experiences where he endangered himself in protection of Sherlock.

Then the image that was a culmination of the rest.

_The swimming pool._

_"Sherlock, run!" His reaction of anger that John had been so stupid still made him tense. Though under his anger there was a flare of the opposite._

" _GOOOOOD! Very Good."_

" _Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."_

" _Mm, he's sweet. I can see why you like having him around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson."_

There was Sherlock's hurdle. Moriarty had identified it, not that John hadn't announced it clearly. Magnusson had seen it too. Sherlock was one of John's pressure points. It made Sherlock smile, just a little, before he turned to the rest of the John room to find a way around that.

_Loyalty will be a problem. Playing on his loyalty to Mary may be an option. No, he considers her mostly safe, removing her from the equation. Obligation to his daughter? No, she's safe with Mary. In that, at least, Mycroft's skills are unquestioned. Mary is safe. Try to convince him she isn't? No better, he would want her closer here. He wavered tonight but he knows she is as safe as possible. Which leaves John's safety to me. I could ask Mycroft to forcibly keep him with Mary until this situation has been dispersed. No. Once he convinces Mary to help him, which will take approximately half a day, she will use her skills to get him out once more. A possible temporary answer, but of no use long term._

_I could evade him, though it would require using an alternate location as a base of operations, and would remove Lestrade's limited help and resources. And, once again, he can get to Mary, who would assist his search._

_I could attempt to start enough of a row that he leaves angry, then continue to restart the fight when he returns. Pointless. Angry or not, he would follow me, and if we are not speaking he will not be aware of all the dangers, placing him at greater risk._

_Hospitalization? Yes, I insisted he leave earlier, that rumor my network found made it dangerous. No, he would have to be completely incapacitated, and I would prefer he not suffer permanent damage._

_Use Mary to convince John? Possible. She's more likely to listen._

_Explain the situation? It has the merit of being out of character for me, it might catch his attention._

_And if he doesn't?_

Uncalled, the memory of Bonfire Night flared in front of him. He did not like to look back at that one. It was far blurrier than most of his mind palace. His mind had not been working at capacity by the time they reached the park. The hollow drop he had felt in his stomach at the realization of where John was still made him feel sick.  _I should have sent John with Mary and started looking for evidence in the park. I didn't because John had been hurt._

It had happened again yesterday.

_That dart stuck in his shoulder, his doctor didn't even know it was there. He was trying to find me instead of leaving or addressing his injuries. Idiot. Which forced me to get him out rather than attempt to recover what had been in that vault. It was destroyed before I got back. I should have stayed. John would have survived, the fire crew was just behind._

_Would he?_

_Shut up._

Sherlock shoved the memory out of the way before the thought could reach the obvious conclusion. That frustrating thought and it's implications were not something he intended to address. They were supposed to be securely locked away with everything else, but had begun to slip out whenever he visited this room. One of the reasons he rarely did.

He had time to convince John to keep out of harms way. Moriarty had yet to deviate from schedule. A buzz brought him out of his mind and to his phone.

From Molly.

**Secobarbital in a gel compound.**

  
**What else?  
** **SH**

**Nothing.**

"Ha."

 **Return the dart and**  
 **remaining blood samples.  
** **SH**

If Molly had not found anything else it could not be anything common, possibly not anything categorized, or whatever it was was no longer on the dart. Moriarty would not bother with a secondary attack without purpose. He needed more data. All he knew as he returned to his chair and his mind palace was that he had missed something.

* * *

John came downstairs the next day solely because he had already taken the remaining pain meds in the kit in his room.

It had occurred to him, laying grumpily on his bed that morning, that the string of messages about his state of consciousness was likely the closest thing to an apology he was going to get from Sherlock Holmes about the utter mistake of going into the bank. And, it being Sherlock, there was no point in pushing for a more recognizable admission of guilt.

"So no news yet? Molly hasn't finished the tests yet?" He said as he saw the detective still sitting in his chair, dressing gown wrapped about him like a cape. His shoulder blades were poking out of his back and he seemed nearly translucent.  _He looks like shit._

"Secobarbital."

"And why didn't you wake me?"

"Pointless. It has already cleared your system and is not toxic in the dosage administered."

"What else?"

"Nothing."

'That doesn't make sense." John said around the pills in his mouth. Swallowing, he continued, "Secobarbital might have kept me down but what's the point of it? Two bombs wasn't enough? It wouldn't have harmed me unless I'd stayed down there while the building burned. So what was the point?"

"Proximity to me must be beneficial for your mind."

"Yeah. Thanks for that, what?"

"I have reached the same conclusion. There must be a second element."

"Right. What is it?"

"No idea."

He set the kettle to boil and turned for cups. Sherlock was staring still.  _No, deducing still. What the hell is he looking for? He knew my life story after two minutes, what could take him several hours?_

Better not to ask. Tea. Biscuits. Cheese. Chicken. He knew he needed to keep eating, even if he felt sick from it. They had a little less than twenty-seven hours before Moriarty's next game would begin.

"Tea."

"Later."

"Now."

"Shush John. Mind palace."

He couldn't help it, he laughed, "No you aren't."

"Yes, I-"

"No. When you're in your mind palace you don't answer at all. You just sit and twitch a bit and gesture. You're deducing, and you can drink some bloody tea at the same time."  _Calm down. Exhale._  "You're going to kill yourself trying to beat him. And yeah, I'm pretty sure that would put a stop to this stupid game between you two, but it won't stop Moriarty."

This was his real job. Not helping at crime scenes. Definitely not helping with deductions. This. Keeping the bastard alive. Pissed off as he was over the bank, it hadn't changed that. Sherlock put the work first. Always would. Someone had to remind him he was still human from time to time.

Sherlock took the tea.

At least after this long the detective could tell when John wasn't going to budge. After eating a bit himself, he slipped off to the shops. Calorically dense was his goal, and in that at least he succeeded.

Dropping the bags in the kitchen, he made new tea. Two cups. He didn't even ask as he handed it to Sherlock, just held it in front of him until he won the battle of will.

It had taken far longer than usual to make the walk there and back. He had detoured into a bookstore just for the excuse to sit down for a little while. It was already past midday. A quick glance around the flat confirmed that sherlock had eaten nothing.

"This too." John said, handing a trek bar to the detective.

"What is this? It looks terrible."

"Its food Sherlock. Just eat it."

"I don't want to." He retorted in a tone that made it clear he was being difficult for the amusement of tormenting John. As the recipient of the unnecessary trouble, he should have been miffed. Instead he was glad his friend was thinking about something other than Moriarty for two minutes.

"Then what will you eat?" John knew that he may as well have been talking to a four year old facing a plate of veg.

"I don't need to eat. I'm not hungry."

"Right, great argument, eat the bloody thing."

"No."

"Do it."

"It looks terrible, weren't you listening?"

"Eat it or I'll hide your phone."

"I'll find it." Sherlock unleashed that cheshire cat grin.

John grinned back. "I'll ring the company and cancel service. I'll tell them that-" Sherlock snatched the bar, ripped it open and took a bite.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"It is terrible."

John held back his laughter, but only just.

* * *

The day continued. Stretched, more than continued. Sherlock was locked in his skull, now with that far away look that made it clear he really was in his mind palace this time. John read and reread the file they had built. He went back all the way to Heathrow and read through to the bank.  _Well I'm not having any epiphanies._

He rubbed his shoulder.  _Damn him. Damn that damn dart. Secobarbital? Sherlock's right, it doesn't make sense._

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Molly.

**Feeling better?  
**

**A bit. New results?  
** **JW**

 **No, sorry.  
** **How is he?**

 **Off.  
** **JW**

 **Asleep?**  
 **No, wait, stupid question.  
** **I'll text if I get an id on the drug.**

Much of the afternoon evaporated like that. Him fielding texts and the stray phone call as his-and Sherlock's health was measured. Not that he could blame them, the hours were ticking away, and once Moriarty presented his next challenge, Sherlock would be moving non stop. Everyone knew John would be just behind.

Finally, a bit before five, Sherlock shifted. It wasn't much, but John recognized it. The detective had exited his palace and would hear him.

"You didn't drink your tea."

"Hm? What?"

Your tea's gone cold.

"Oh, yes."

"Fresh? Reheat? Maybe a sandwich?"

He recieved a substantial glare, so moved the cup to the kitchen and sat down once more, conceding the fight for the drink.

"Any closer to a theory for all this yet?" He ventured after a while.

"Regarding?"

"Dont be an arse. About why. What's his game? His goal?"

"No."

That little girl's face filled his vision for a moment. Something about the smugness, something about seeing that bastard sit there without a trace of guilt for the lives that had been lost and ruined by their mistakes and inadaquecies threw John over the edge.

"Then what the hell were you just working on? You didn't sleep last night. No, don't lie, I know you didn't. You've got something more important to deal with than a terrorist spree in London?" He knew he shouldn't yell.

 _Too bad. I hate this._   _What did Molly call me? His tether? My job to keep him here, keep his focus on where it needs to be. Damned brilliant arsehole will practically kill himself on a case. Is going to kill himself on this case. He knows we cocked up on the bank. He knows we cocked up with the school. Children died and even him, EVEN Sherlock feels that hit closer to home. Calm down. I have to keep him going forward not trying to re-solve the last case._

"Six weeks Sherlock. It's been six weeks and you still haven't gotten ahead of him. In fact, he's getting farther away."

"And you think tea is going to help?"

"I think you're down near a stone since he came back. I've seen anorexics eat more than you. Do you think this is going to help anyone, hm? Dropping dead? None of the rest of us could have stopped any of this, do you think if you just drop dead one of us is going to suddenly know how to do what you do? Even your brother is out of his depth on this. He needed back so bad he got an exile ignored because we needed you. Now you're doing this?"

The look of deduction had been replaced with confusion, and a hint of insult. Too bad.

"Do you think we'll have an option besides negotiating with that sick bastard? If you die, he's just going to get worse. He'll kill Mycroft, and then he's going to burn this country. Unless  _you_  stop him. And you can't do that half dead from exhaustion and starvation!"

There was a brief flash of something in the look he got, something he'd have called fear if he'd been feeling generous. If it hadn't been Sherlock. Too quickly it was replaced with anger, and then John was, for the first time, on the receiving end of one of rages he had heard about so many times.

"If your ordinary mind was able to establish that, do you for a second believe that I am unaware of the facts?" There was a hint of a tremor in his voice. "That I have not noticed that there is no one else? Jim Moriarty won't burn England John, he'll own it. It and every person inside it. This is a different game from last time. He wanted a distraction before. He wanted to play. He wanted to test me. Now he knows how we work! I spent two years picking apart a crime ring he assembled solely to let me think I was winning. All I was doing was clearing the ranks of those he thought weren't good enough. He's been ahead of me from the beginning and the only chance there is to catch up now is to find a mistake! And I will not waste my time on frivolity until then!"

"Frivol-you-Christ!"

"I have to keep my mind clear!" The tea cup shattered on the wall behind John's head. "I cannot make any mistake!"

At some point both of them had stood up to shout.

"You already have! You haven't solved them all! You haven't stopped them! You were too late with the school! You were wrong about the Bank! You aren't thinking clearly!" The small doctor part of his brain informed him that all this yelling wasn't the best idea for his head. He ignored it. "You. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Aren't. Thinking. You're getting blind!"

"Blind?!"

"Yes! And it is going to get you dead! Again! Except this time it'll be real!"

Sherlock turned to the stairs and screamed "Not now, Mrs Hudson!"

John hadn't even heard her approach.

"You're going to lose, Sherlock! So just Shut UP and listen to me and bloody eat something, get some rest, and maybe you'll start being of use again!"

"Shu-"

"No! Do you know what Molly told me last week? She hasn't seen you like this. Ever. Molly, who you know damn well has seen you at your worst, has never seen you this far gone. What's different now?"

Sherlock didn't answer, anger boiling just below the surface, just below a thin film of guilt and fear. John noticed the emotions but was too mad to recognize how far he had pushed his friend.

"Is it because people have died? Or, is it because he's winning, and you are the great Sherlock Holmes and you're always bloody right?" The man in question was tensing, his hands in fists and a snarl on his face.

If he had taken a moment to think, he would have stopped. This was helping neither of them. But he continued, "You know what else Molly told me? She told me I'm your damn tether. That I'm the only thing that can bring you back down when you go off. That you float up  _so damn high_  trying to find the answers and be a hero that I have bring you back to the ground so you can do the work. But she's wrong about that, isn't she, Sherlock? You and I aren't worried about you floating too high, because  _that's_  not your problem. The problem is that you're drowning, you're sinking, and  _that's_  what I'm trying to bring you back from. If you were headed up, if you were playing hero again, you'd have already found a crack, some way into Moriarty's plan. But you haven't. Because you made some mistakes, he beat you and you're letting it drag you down. You're letting him make you a  _coward_  for some reason. And I don't understand it, but it's going to get you killed. And I'm not going to let that kill you Sherlock, because this time it'd be for real."

John did his best not to let his voice crack on that. When it did, he finally broke eye contact.  _Well shit. I've gone too far._

* * *

His mind was full of shouting and memories.  _John doesn't understand. Wouldn't understand. Mustn't._  He was close, but he couldn't see what the real problem was.

Fine. The rational part of his mind ceded control to the angry mob that wanted to destroy the man who had awaken them.

"Moriarty is a step ahead of me because of  _you_." He said, cutting into the vacuum of silence that had clamped down on the room after John had shouted himself out. After he had stumbled on his accusation, he had lost the strength to keep yelling. At this new accusation, Sherlock saw his friend snap up, defensive and fuming. "You're getting in the way. You keep thinking you're protecting me.  _Wrong_. Alone is safe. Alone protects me. I don't need you. I don't need anyone. In fact, I need you gone."

John Watson was a formidable opponent for most of the people he encountered. He had taken down junkies and criminals and guards and everyone else in his way.

Sherlock saw the tension build and dodged the fist coming for his face. While John was overextended he grabbed the man's wrist and shouldered him into the wall. "You are my distraction!" The mob inside had intended to threaten and insult and bluster until John was angry enough to go stay with Mary. He hadn't intended to inadvertently deduce himself in that moment.

In the few seconds that John was still against the wall, stunned, Sherlock's mind tumbled. The box of thoughts and memories he kept locked away, that he refused to acknowledge, that he should have deleted the moment he noticed any sentiment in it, was leaking.  _Damndamndamn._ Emotions, normally buried too deep to be a problem were seeping into his thoughts.  _No. Not right now. Lock it down. It's irrelevant._

He did, and quickly, trying to cling the rage that would let him truly hurt John, to finally get through to him the necessity of his solitude. To make clear the risks and the consequences and what that lurking danger was doing to the detective. But his mind didn't want to settle. John's face was close to his, and he could see his eyes widen, having recognized something out of character in Sherlock. His mind opened his mouth to say that John was too stupid to be trusted without supervision in this case, but that wasn't what left his mouth.

"I can't let you get hurt, John. You're too important-"  _to me,_ he finished silently, only barely repressing the end of the sentence. He knew his voice had lost its power. He knew he had just let slip one of the incessant little gnats of emotion and thought that were supposed to be hidden permanently.

He knew that every bit of sentiment was visible when John's eyes locked with his.

Still pinning him to the wall beneath him, Sherlock was entirely aware of the acceleration in John's pulse and breathing. He saw the muscles of his jaw clench, but John had snapped his eyes shut, and did not leave enough information to identify the reaction. Sherlock had more than enough information to register his own horror at having said  _that_ , for having inadvertently revealed something he had truly intended to one day delete. There was a moment when he considered attempting to coerce John into leaving by playing on his insecurities, or telling him the truth, all of it, but he couldn't bring himself to do either. John finally made eye contact.

Fear. Anxiety. Panic. Nausea.

_Rejection._

His furious mental mob, temporarily stilled while it waited to identify John's reaction, reclaimed control. Half unconscious of his words, he launched into the invective laden tirade he had paused. What he said didn't matter as much as John's reaction, and so he continued until there was nothing left to be seen in the doctor's eyes but boiling resentment.

Then he kept going until John snapped.

He shoved Sherlock away, grabbed a coat from the hook and was gone.

* * *

 **Pub. Now.  
** **JW**

He hit send as he stormed down the street. It was just starting to get dark, and fog was rising again. Lestrade answered quickly.

**What? Why?**

**Pub or gun range.**  
 **Choose.  
** **JW**

**Pub. 10 min**

_What the hell was that? Seriously, what the bloody hell just happened. I know I pushed him, but God, that was more than he expected in reply. Sherlock got angry. He's done that before. I've managed to get him mad. That was expected, but_ _**Christ that arse!** _

" _Useless, simple, ordinary boring idiot." "Weak, incompetent coward" "a distraction" "A liability." "not needed"_

"Well fuck you too." He shouted, turning his head back at the flat. The tourist couple beside him seemed startled.

_But what the hell was that after I went to punch him? What the hell? "I can't let you get hurt. You're too important-"_

He took his phone back out of his coat. New message: Recipient: Sherlock Holmes.

_No, fuck no I'm not messaging him._

If the detective wanted to be a prat, John wasn't going to stop him. If he wanted to starve himself, he would let him.  _Sod him. He'd probably just been testing to see how I responded to false kindness. Or its cause of Mary and the baby. Some rule he read about how lives are more important when there's children involved. Sherlock doesn't tolerate 'sentiment'. He's fucking machine._

_Jesus my head hurts. And fucking fuck, I left the pills on the table back there. Like hell I'm going back to the flat. Fine, no bother, I shouldn't have any with how much I plan on drinking anyway._

**Hurry up.  
** **JW**

He stepped inside the pub.

* * *

That had not gone well. The only silver lining to that disaster was that John had left. It was unlikely he would return in a hurry, if he was willing to return at all. He may have succeeded after all in one of his dismissed approaches to keep John safe. Hopefully he would contact Mycroft and stay with Mary. Maybe he actually had convinced him to stay away.

He didn't like the thought.

One thing he had actually listened to during John's nearly incoherent lecture was the need to eat. He would not admit it, but knew his fitted suits were loose at the moment. More importantly his hands were trembling, shaking actually.

_Shaking because of what I just-No. NO._

_Shaking because I need to eat._

In the bags he found some unpleasant looking drinks promising to help you gain weight. He sneered, but drank two of them. The caloric content would help with the shaking.  _Trembling. Hypoglycemia. Obviously just an in balance of blood sugars._

Out came his phone. New message: Recipient: John Watson.

_NO. Close it._

_He's safer there. This is better._

He had shoved his blogger away to remove the distraction. That was the only reason. Alone was safe.

His phone rang.

Mycroft. He had wanted it to be John.

"What?

"The receptionist has no records."

"None?"

"Not until six months ago."

"Hm. Of course you'll continue looking?"

"Of course." Sherlock was about to hang up, but heard his brother once more. "Sherlock?"

"What now?"

"Is this a danger night?"

He hung up.  _Damn. What did I miss? How does he already know? I only said ten damn words. Cameras? Bugs? Ah, no, I forgot to tell him off for calling not texting. I cannot be this distracted. I will not allow it._

 _It's enough of a problem Moriarty knows at all. This removes John from the direct line of fire. And I can concentrate during on the case._ More emotions tried to rise.  _No._

" _John Watson is definitely in danger."_

 _No. NO. Not you. Besides, John will go to Mary. He_ _ **will**_   _be safe there. I can trust Mycroft's people to keep him safe._

" _What do you need, Freak?"_

_John's face._

_Rejection._

He slipped into his mind palace, angry. Went back to that John room, and crammed the thoughts inside. He shoved into the box that look on his face as he left. Shoved in the memory of rising pulses and mingled breath. Shoved in what he had wanted to do instead of insult him. Shoved away everything he could about his best friend. As he closed it, he looked at it one more time. It was against his own wish, but he had learned that it was almost impossible to escape his more human instincts in here. Sherlock gave in for just a moment to really examine that box that leaked emotions at him.

Once he stopped fighting it, the box seemed to glow a bit in his mind.

It was, after all, full of dozens of nice things and the thoroughly irritating emotions they provoked.

Instead of attacking him with visions of his friend in a bonfire, or strapped into exploding vests, or staring at him with a look he saw from nearly every person he met, he heard laughter. " _No, we mustn't laugh. Its a crime scene. Sorry, its just, uh, shock."_ All of the ridiculous things they had done flashed by. " _That was amazing. Extraordinary, quite extraordinary."_ It had been the first time anyone he had met had been genuinely astounded, without the usual overtone of offense in their voice. It was, up to that point, the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.

It was topped by John's voice, sitting in the kitchen.

" _And I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world….Mary Morstan...And...you."_

That moment had ground the endless wheel of thought in his head to a halt. Not simply because he had never had a best friend, but because it had been John. Many hours had been spent picking at that memory until he had understood his own reaction.  _My best friend, my doctor, my flatmate, my blogger, my assistant. The only man I-NO-A man that I cannot allow to come to harm._ He wouldn't allow the sentiment to exist in words, not even here.

He had allowed his mind to wander and his mind palace responded, and showed him John's eyes. Forced him to as the image and the overwhelming echo of Rejection thundered about him.

Suddenly fuming, he put it all back, hid it all again, cramming it violently into the corner of the room he kept in the corner of his thoughts.

He stepped out of the John room into the sudden clarity of his own mind, free from chaos for the first time in weeks. The door was still looking at him, distracting him.  _Delete it. Permanently. Go back and delete that box. Do it._

After a moment, he locked the door, he barricaded it, and he walked away.

* * *

"Who does he think he is Greg?" John was cursing over his drink. "That prat. That arse. He can barely manage to reheat a leftover."

"Yeah."

"He's gonna faint over himself during the next one. I say let him."

"Yeah, sure. John?"

"What?"

"You know you're going to have to wrap up this little lover's spat before this mess starts again?"

"Not gay. Christ, how many times do I have to repeat it. M'not. Gay." John slammed the pint down with a bit more force than intended.

"Yeah, whatever, doesn't matter. Or at least, its not my point. He's gonna need you back."

"Oh no no, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't need anyone, haven't you heard? Better off alone."

"Give me that." Greg took the remainder of the pint and dumped the last of the crisps into it. "No, you're done drinking, shouldn't have let you have it in the first place. You were in hospital yesterday, remember?"

John protested but was overrun. "You're mad at him, sure, and seems like he was being even more of an unfeeling git than normal. But if you were just mad you'd have clocked him and gone to bed. You're hurt."

"M'not-"

"Shut it. You are. You're out drowning your sorrows instead of going to Mary. So you plan on going back to Bakers Street again."

"Nope. He wants to be alone, so, sod him."

"John, he doesn't think like people do. That's why we need him. But it also makes him a right tosser sometimes. You're the only person I've ever seen him let closer than ten feet. You're the only person he has ever listened to about anything. Damn." Lestrade looked down at his phone. "Donovan, I've got to get back. One of you is going to have to be an adult John, and we know it won't be him. Look, just, If you don't go back at least go to Mary, talk to her about this. She's gonna steer you right back here, but maybe you'll actually hear it coming from her."

"Yeah, sure, whatever,I will."

Lestrade dropped some bills on the table and walked away.

John ordered a fresh pint.

The beer calmed him down a bit more, though it was fair to say he was no less angry; he had just moved most of it back to Moriarty. That had been the easiest conclusion to draw from that row. Both men were well past stressed and pulled in too many directions. They had to lash out at someone, somewhere eventually.  _The city of London should be grateful I took that one for the team. Most people would wee themselves in the face of Sherlock at full boil._

Phone. New message: Recipient: Mary.

 **danger night I think. sorry**  
 **I'll talk to mycroft about visiting.**  
 **Maybe a few days  
** **JW**

 **Take care of him.**  
 **We need him.  
** **Love you.**

 **Stay safe. Love you.  
** **JW**

He slipped the phone back into his pocket walking back towards his damn flat, and his damn friend. His mind started replaying the argument as he traversed the fog shrouded streets. John wasn't sure what the hell had happened: during the fight, after, or at any time really, but it was Sherlock. Moriarty was still out there, and they only had about a day before he would contact them again.

When that happened he needed to be beside Sherlock.

Not that he was going to give him the satisfaction of a text ahead of time. With luck, the detective would be in his room, and he could just pretend in the morning that nothing had happened. Sherlock would delete it and they'd deal with whatever Moriarty had next.

He stopped a moment, lost in the pea soup fog.  _Do I want him to delete it? Well, yes, the fight, of course. Me trying to clock him, sure. But I think thats the first time he's ever spontaneously admitted that he'd prefer I not die. Mixed in with a speech why I was of no use, yeah, but that part at least seemed honestly different._

There had been a brief flash in his eyes, just for a moment, a flash of something that had sent a shiver clear through John's spine. It had shocked him, scared him, to see something so Un-Sherlock as that in his friends generally logic deadened eyes.  _We probably should talk about that part._   _Today's probably not the day to ask though. That'll be on me, he'll never say anything about it again, I'll bet. If he doesn't just delete it entirely._

Another thought flickered.  _I hope he doesn't._  He pushed it aside, as he always did.

He grinned, then smothered it, shaking his head.

"Nope, not gay at all." he muttered.

"Oh? Is that what you tell yourself, Johnny-boy?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I like long chapters...hope you do too. I have no Beta or Britpick (which I always misread as BitPrick, which is a less desirable thing), and would love to have either or both. In the mean time, let me know if anything stands out to you. I redid the wording of that fight and that moment about a dozen times before I was happy with it. I'd love to know what you think.  
> Until I figure out the next chunk: thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter Three

John had done as Sherlock had intended, he had left, and stayed away. It was what he had wanted from that conversation- _argument_ -but that had not made the flat any less empty. He had not wanted it so much as he had determined it was the appropriate action to take. He had to move forward.

He drank more of the appalling protein drinks. He even ate some of the snacks and biscuits. It alleviated some of his guilt.

Moriarty would be in touch sometime today. Twelve to sixteen hours. He had his phone in his pocket. He was already dressed so he could be on Moriarty's tail the second he had a lead. Dozens of chess pieces were already in motion across London. The homeless network was everywhere, waiting to be given something to hunt.

Lestrade had extra men standing by. Mycroft was similarly on alert.

Sherlock had even managed to sleep for a time. With his Mind Palace cleaned it was easier to rest. It would make the next puzzle easier to process.

"Sentiment is a defect found in the losing side." He reminded himself, and meant it.

The deadline passed, and Sherlock's phone was still silent. His computer was still silent. Scotland yard was still silent.

Mary and Lestrade both texted. He ignored them. Mycroft called. He ignored it. He paced. He drank another of John's protein things. He realized John had certainly purchased them for him. He had another.

Hours passed. His homeless network was still passing the same message. "All's Clear." Once an hour they all checked in with the confirmation that nothing untoward had been spotted.

Sherlock could not sleep that night, despite his best intention and the full knowledge that he could wake up almost instantaneously

By the next morning everyone was tense. Although Moriarty had not hijacked the nation's screens since that first video, he had hijacked them individually throughout the attacks, often random offices at the Yard. Once the telly in the flat. Once every screen in a pub John had been enjoying. He always got in contact. It was always three days after the last attack.

Everyone involved in the task force and investigation was feeling the strain.

Moriarty was never late.

It only meant something new, and quite certainly worse, was on the horizon.

By noon Sherlock was in NSY, waiting for a few terrified officers scrambling for the police records he had commanded. Every report made in the last 96 hours in fact. Arms clasped behind him, wearing his Belstaff over his purple shirt, he knew he was using his manufactured media image to control the room. Always for the best when there were idiots about who might otherwise attempt to talk to him.

"Where's John?" Lestrade asked, clearly trying to fill the dead air. Met with silence, he continued, "With Mary then. Well thats good."  _Lestrade and John went to the pub last night. Lestrade left early, told John to go to Mary. Good. Mary hasn't messaged, John is still angry. Good. Mycroft hasn't commented beyond that one phone call. That isn't out of the ordinary._

"Hey boss, we have something."

"What?" Lestrade barked, chasing Donovan into an office with Sherlock just behind. "What happened?"

"There's a gap, boss. Eight hour window. Nothing. We've had reports come in during that time, but that's only when the report was filed. Everything seems to have just stopped during that."

"Stopped? Stopped how?" Lestrade said, glancing at the timeline the team had hastily thrown together. S

"None of the crimes that we have had reported occurred in that gap."

"Just within London? Does it go further?"

"Just London."

"Sally, what is the very last crime reported?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Uhm….here, these all happened within a few minutes of each other." She handed over a set of reports.  _Still sleeping with Anderson. Went to him last night, anxious about the case. She would normally take it out on me. What's different? No eye contact. No insults. Lestrade threatened her job if she was difficult during this case._

"Somethings changed." he announced.

"Yeah I'll say, every criminal in London took a good sleep at the same time apparently."

"No, it won't be all of them, petty crimes will have continued, though not too many I expect. It would seem that Moriarty halted all criminal activity though. Anything and anyone he has a connection to went underground for a time."

"For how long?"

"Irrelevant. It will muddle the search since all of the potential parties will have behaved out of character. The second point is to accentuate something, so the pieces are already there. We need to separate the immaterial from the crucial. I need the report on the first reported case after the gap, as well as anything else that happened in that first hour."

The reports then, and as the ones prior to the gap were already assembled, that was where he began. Ten within twenty minutes, then nothing.

_Mugging. Car theft. Hit and run. Break in. Mugging. Robbery. Rape. Domestic violence. Arson. Break in._

_Not enough._

_Actress. Accountant. Stock broker. Green Grocer. Tourist. Flower shop. Train conductor and girlfriend. Bakery. Clocktower._

_Locations? Street. Carpark. Street. Store. Street. Store. Park. Apartment. Bakery. Clocktower. No. Something else. What's the connection?_

_Ages? No. Clusters? No._

His phone buzzed.

**Where are you?  
** **JW**

**You aren't needed.**  
 **Stay there.  
** **SH**

**Where are you?**  
 **What's happening?  
** **JW**

He ignored that.

_The reports. Only the attacks on people? No, too generalized. Only the material? Car theft. Break in. Robbery. Arson. Break in._

_Not the car._

_Break in Robbery Arson Break in._

_Grocery Florist Bakery Clocktower._

_No._

_On a map?_

_White City. Holloway. Lambeth. Stratford. No._

_Too far._

_White City. Holloway. Lambeth._

_Break in. Robbery. Arson._

_A grocer is vandalised. A florist is robbed. A baker is burned._

_Connections. The owners? no. Workers. no. Patron, difficult to isolate but possible. Patron is the target? Patron is the motivation? Patron is a clue?_

_"_ Sherlock _."_

_I need a map. It's a bit simple for Moriarty, but needs to be checked._

"Oi, Sherlock. This was just delivered. Marked for you. We can get it checked."

"It's not an explosive."

"How the hell do you know?"

"That would spoil the game."

He took the box out of Lestrade's hands. Turned it over.

_Wooden box, factory made, floral shop_.  _Balance of probability, the site of the robbery. Silk ribbon, poorly tied. Ignorant or hands shaking. Not sealed. Opens? Yes. Flowers? Purple, bell shape, columnar. Smell. Slight bitterness. Substantial Greens relative to flower. German Bellflower. Grown across Asia, Europe, now grown in England. Scientific name,_

"Campanula Rapunculus."

"What's that?"

"These flowers, Campanula Rapunculus. The name was inspiration for the Brothers Grimm story: Rapunzel. Rapunzel it is the story of a baker, who steals from a witches garden to appease his wife's cravings for vegetables. His life is spared in exchange for what he held most dearly, his newborn child. For whatever reason the child was named after this particular type of lettuce, which does seem-"

_No. Too obvious for him? Isn't it?_

Sherlock set the flower sprig down on the case file.

**Confirm location for M Watson  
** **SH**

**Immediately.  
** **SH**

**Confirmed  
** **MH**

Sherlock allowed himself a moment's relief. The Watson family was safe. Mary was confirmed and John was texting him.

**?  
** **MH**

**It's started.**  
 **Kidnapping.  
** **SH**

He quickly connected the triangle of locations on a map in one of the folders and circled the center. "I need all of the security footage between 630 and 830. Begin within that circle and expand outwards." He handed the sheet to a disgruntled sargent. They had the sense to go quickly.

"Whoever Moriarty kidnapped was taken within this area, most likely at or around 7:30 yesterday evening."

"Cameras won't have much. Heavy fog."

"Worth the effort. This will be high profile. Possibly an infant or very young child. Pregnant women near delivery. They will be related or connected to someone Moriarty believes he is re-paying for stealing from him."

"Hey, wait, Baker Street was at the center of that circle."

"Yes."

"So doesn't that make-"

"I've already confirmed their safety."

"Right, good, yeah. So what else do you have?"

"If Moriarty is once again drawing on a fairy tale and casting himself as the villain, as he did with the abduction of the ambassador's children, then we need to consider the entirety of the tale."

He picked the flowers back up.

"The Baker climbs over the garden wall to obtain vegetables for his pregnant wife several times. He is eventually caught, but rather than an immediate punishment the witch agrees to take the child in exchange for her stolen food. The child is locked away and raised to believe that the witch is her loving mother. When the child eventually meets a prince, the Witch attacks the girl, and blinds the prince in a pile of thorn bushes."

"Yeah, so?"

Phone. New message: Mary

**Towers. In London.**  
 **Bramble or thorn bush nearby.  
** **SH**

He showed the text to Lestrade.

**One hour**

"Lestrade, we need several versions of the fairy tale both in English and in German."

"What if he isn't so easy? He isn't so literal?"

Sherlock rolled his head in a circle for a moment, allowing the suggestion to be weighed.

"Yes, good, very good Lestrade. Moriarty may be less literal this time. So, removing the standard trappings of the story what does it become? One man wrongs another-Moriarty in this circumstance. Rather than seek direct payment for the offense, Moriarty takes what is of greatest value to the original man. That thing, and it may not be a person: although the trends of his previous efforts indicate otherwise, that thing becomes a possession of Moriarty's. When anyone attempts to contact or reclaim it, all parties are punished, one attacked, the other blinded."

"You're the other man, Sherlock."  _I do not need to be reminded._

**Confirm Location. M Hudson.  
** **SH**

**Confirm Location. M Hooper.  
** **SH**

**Confirmed.**  
 **For both.  
** **MH**

"Everyone of value to me has been confirmed." He said sharply as he berated himself for taking so long to think to confirm the last two. "Lestrade, this may be far worse than me as the target. I am not the only figure to have wronged Jim Moriarty."

"What? Like, Royal baby?"

"Possibly."

"Aren't they out the country right now?" Sherlock gestured vaguely, and Lestrade took his meaning correctly. It was something he needed to check into.  _Trivialities. Mycroft surely has the entire lot well protected._

**Your protectees?  
** **SH**

**Confirmed.  
** **MH**

**I have the feed from NSY  
** **MH**

Sherlock took only long enough to sneer at the ceiling for half a breath, then turned back internally to keep thinking.

_I_ _need more data. What else?_ Back to the box. Nothing. No note. No message. Almost certainly taken from the florist shop.  _Dead End._

_Fine, the cases._   _What else is there?_

**Why won't you answer me?  
** **JW**

**Please Answer.**  
 **Where are you?  
** **JW**

_Shut up John! Stay with your wife and stay alive!_  He ignored the messages again. One of the endless, nameless Yarder's placed a stack of papers in front of him.

"Original German and an early translation, sir." Sherlock dropped into a chair and started scanning through the german text for any hint.

Though it was behind him, and the room was thoroughly loud, he noticed the change immediately. He turned instantly to the TV on the wall as it went to piercing static.

"What is this? He giving us more clues? A second case?"

"Shut up Lestrade"

Sherlock rose and approached the screen as the trademark static faded.  _Yes, new victim. Taken approximately 40 hours earlier, currently unconscious, no not unconscious, intoxicated. With what? Drugs? Alcohol? Common practice in torture cases, weaken a person's brain to break them faster. Why was this one tortured? Was this one tortured? The others were press ganged into suicide bombings. No torture required. This man is something new._

He waited, the picture cleared, he moved closer.

"That's not a kid, Sherlock."

"Nor a pregnant woman, clearly."

"So then why-"

"Is this everywhere?"

_Damn, the image isn't fully clearing. Fine. Fine. The man first: clothing is not his, was changed into it after being taken. Well muscled but not a young man. Left shoulder currently dislocated. Both arms twitching erratically. Heavily drugged. Right hand attempting to grab something unseen, Severely intoxicated? with what? No. Hallucinations? Sleep deprivation? Not enough time for sleep deprivation. Chemically induced more likely._

_He'd been beaten at least twice since being taken. Again just before this._

"No, it's just this screen. _"_ Lestrade came up next to him.

_Face covered by fabric, unlikely we will identify him that way. Seems to be muttering but we have no audio, and mouth is not visible. Why just send it here? Targeted? Clearly. For who? Someone at Scotland Yard? Possible. Lestrade? No one close to him matches description. Me? No, Mycroft confirmed. This is none of my more distant relatives._

_Nothing in sight except the man bound to a chair. White room. No external light. No data, no clues. The man again then. There had to be something. Left hand. Ring. Married. Married recently. Video still unclear, no details visible._

_Something new. Red light at chest. Sniper._

_Irrelevant._

_He won't be killed without making it clear who he is and why. What is missing? What what What._

He knew his fingers were dancing in front of him, tiny gestures to observations, filing them or discarding them with flicks back and forth. His mind was in a maelstrom of theories, ideas, observations, all of them useless.  _Ten seconds of video. Longer than expected. Captive's head rolling to the side, neck and jawline now visible. Not enough to identify. No. Stop. Familiar. Known. Royalty? Celebrity?_

His mental marathon intensified as it looked for the connection.

_This has to be high profile, they're connected to Moriarty's Rapunzel bit. This **will**  be the Rapunzel character. Atypical characterization but is being used to fill the role. This isn't a random citizen_.

His mobile sounded with a message. Brought it up to eye level as he continued to stare at the television.

Message from John.

**Mine now  
** **xxJim**

His mind abruptly ground to a halt. His mind palace shut down. He had no thoughts hovering, nothing except for the echoes and one word that stood like a monolith.

_John_.

The fabric on the captive's face fell away, and the office went silent. The video cut off.

Sherlock sat down.

* * *

It had taken Mycroft Holmes an entire forty seven minutes to bring Mary Watson from the underground bunker where she had been staying to the New Scotland Yard. She walked across the open desk area of the Yard with more intensity than they had thought possible from a woman nearly seven months gone with child.

Not a single person spoke to her.

Most because they had no notion of who she was until she passed, when one of the knowledgeable would lean in and begin to swiftly mutter. Those who knew her stayed silent for another reason: if she had walked through with an AK-47 and a grenade launcher should could not have seemed more dangerous.

_Little do they know_ , she thought as she saw Lestrade crossing to meet her.

"Mary," He said, and gestured, leading her towards the room she sought. He didn't need to ask. He was the one who had contacted Mycroft. He had sent the message faster than she could get her guard's attention. She nodded to him as she reached her goal, sparing only a moment to really look at him.  _He's had two cigarettes in the last half hour, and has a patch on his arm: he is trying not to panic out loud._ No comment was necessary, after all, she wasn't Sherlock. Mary Watson was perfectly content in having the knowledge locked away for her own use.

She stepped into the room alone and locked the door behind her.

Sherlock Holmes sat in a chair, so still he could have been dead, with eyes wide and back straight. His Belstaff collar was blocking part of his face, but she could see he had taken the trouble to hit expectations before coming in this morning.

With Moriarty breaking pattern, his normal arrogancy would have been an everyday comfort.  _I'm sure he was only too happy to oblige. Brilliant arrogant sod._

Her eyes travelled around the room as she set a bag down. First she closed the blinds over the window in the door. Out came a small gadget with speakers and microphones on it. A moment's fiddling produced a quick beep. She set it down and turned a dial on the side _._ Now emitting a hypersonic noise to interfere with any recording devices in the room, she walked to the ceiling mounted fish eye camera and simply shoved it through, hiding it within the ceiling tiles. Then she crossed to the television, disconnecting all the cables from the back with a jerk. Finally, she dragged a chair in front of the detective, and sat.

_Mind Palace, definitely. Well, he better bloody come out bloody soon._

Her daughter disapproved of the way Mary was sitting, and took to flailing against her bladder and spine causing her to alternately need to pee or cry.  _Too bad little one. Daddy needs us, and so does Sherlock._

Rubbing her stomach caused her daughter to squirm, moving the pressure and allowing Mary to stay where she waited. Her eyes went back to Sherlock's. Yes they were open, and she knew, to use the cliche, that someone was home. However, that someone was deep in the basement and wouldn't hear if she knocked.  _Fine. Greg said he has been here since the message was sent._ She glanced at her watch,  _fifty-one minutes. John said the record was over four hours. God I hope not, I'll just shove him off his chair if he goes another twenty._

Her husband always complained that everyone he knew was a psychopath, but tonight, that would play in his favor. Moriarty had not taken him without a grander purpose.  _Jim does nothing without a grander purpose._ There were very few people who could stand toe to toe with the consulting criminal, but she was sitting across from one of them. The problem being that Sherlock worked best with a second, with a back up. For all his protestations about needing to be alone, he worked smoother with John behind him.

John was unavailable.

She would have to do.

_John'll kill me for this._   _He didn't like me moving the furniture around, and I'm going to go chasing criminals with his best mate. Too bad. He's the one who got bloody kidnapped again. He's Bloody Princess Peach. Every time Moriarty's people get involved, John gets taken. Sometimes even if it isn't Moriarty. How many times has he had a bloody gun at his head to keep Sherlock in line? But I'm the one who had to be in an underground bunker. Idiots. Stupid protective sexist idiots._

Not that Mary was unaware of why everyone always targeted John. If they took Sherlock, the highest they could aspire would be to kill him. When they took John, they got to manipulate Sherlock. They got to control him; and Sherlock was a powerful tool.

It was an absolute blind spot in the detective's defenses. He would not acknowledge how irrational he became regarding the defense of her husband.  _Don't argue with it. It's going to be how we get him back. I can't be John, but I can keep his mind on track, not locked in guilt._

_But we have to get to it._

She was done waiting; she jiggled his knee and called his name.

After a few seconds, Sherlock's eyes lost some of their distance. He brought himself back to the world and out of his mental escape. He glanced for one moment around the room, specifically to the clock on the wall. When he looked back at her, she could tell he had set aside Mary Watson and was speaking to the woman he knew she had been. There was no other name to use though.

"Mary."

"Sherlock."

"John."

"I know."

His eyes flickered to the side.

"Mycroft?"

"Moriarty."

"Mary I'm so tre-"

He was looking at Mary Watson again.

"Not now. What do we know?" She cut him off. He hesitated, "Talk, Sherlock."

He blinked once, twice, and obeyed.

"Taken yesterday at approximately 7:30, almost certainly off the street, but the CCTV footage is being reviewed now. Heavy fog so we are not expecting much. After he was taken, his phone was used to continue sending messages. I received seven, all some question asking where I was until the eighth." He held up his phone so she could see it.

**Mine now  
** **xxJim**

"We were contacted with approximately fourteen seconds of video. While his face was initially obscured, at the end it was moved and we could identify him. He has been beaten three times in the last day. He is being drugged. His shoulder is dislocated. None of his injuries have been tended, but the way his arms were tied down was not putting excessive pressure on the joint, so they do not intend to kill him in the immediate future. He was muttering throughout, but the video cut before I could attempt to understand it."

"Does Lestrade have a record?"

"Yes."  _I need to see it._

"What else?"

"I received a box with bellflowers in it. Their scientific name is an allusion to the Grimm brother's tale of Rapunzel. Additionally, a few minutes before we believe he was taken, crime in the city ceased. It began again after a few hours, but Moriarty ordered this to do three things. One, prove that his network is no smaller than it was three years ago. Two, make it more difficult to find unusual behavior from any criminal we might observe, because everyone had unusual behavior that night. And three, he was pointing out his theme. There were several crimes committed immediately before he was taken. After eliminating the refuse, it is another allusion to his fairy tale. A baker, a grocer, a florist and a clock tower were the important data points. At the center of the triangle of locations is the flat."

Sherlock grimaced slightly, it certainly wasn't a smile. "He seems to have foregone subtlety this time."

Mary nodded, processing. "What else?"

"At the moment, nothing."

She arched her eyebrows at him. "Then we need to try harder."

"Mary, this-"

"Not now."

"Very well."

"We need to go over the footage again." She was up and across the room at a speed that she knew raised his deductive interest. She could feel him thinking as she opened the door and said sharply, "Greg, Sherlock needs a recording of the footage, on a laptop as soon as possible, as well as all the records and information he asked for an hour ago."

The door nearly clipped Greg's nose.  _He's had another smoke._

Sherlock was turned in his seat, still deducing away. Like her husband, Mary didn't mind Sherlock's deductions, they were, if nothing else, excellent at keeping her in practice. She had the added pleasure of knowing that she had entirely fooled him once, so he tried even harder.

However, she was not masking anything today.

Just as she had at the start of the Magnussen affair, she allowed him to see what she had been. John never wanted to know this. He had burned the memory stick. Sherlock, she was certain, knew all of it.

Instead of commenting on his deductions, he nodded to the device on the table. "Hypersonic emitter to interfere with listening devices. How large is the radius?"

"Twelve feet. Don't worry, there's one in your box of presents." His brow furrowed." Under your bed at the flat. I placed it there months ago Sherlock."

"How did you manage that?"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Sherlock. You'll like it, all kinds of great toys."

"And you had not given John nor I these kits earlier because you try not to flaunt your past in front of him."

"Yes."

"And now, that matters less to you."

"Yes." It was obvious when she dropped back into the familiar persona. She stood differently. She  _breathed_  differently. Protrusive stomach notwithstanding, she was a different person. Sherlock was busily observing, categorizing, and planning his next line of questioning.

What he was about to ask next she never knew, because Greg knocked. She returned, at least partly, to being Mary Watson. Detective Inspector Lestrade set down a laptop and a stack of folders. "The boys are still going over the CCTV, haven't found him on any of them yet."

"It is unlikely they will, Lestrade, but your people should look for anything out of the ordinary within that area."

"Yeah, that's what I've got 'em doing. I'm not an idiot, Sherlock."

Mary's lips quirked up for a moment. They fell when the laptop opened.

There was no sound attached to the video file. She regretted that for the lost information, the lost clues for Sherlock to notice, but was more grateful she wouldn't have to hear her husband's pain. For he was definitely in pain.

His arms were twitching against the bonds around him. They had used flat canvas strapping to restrain him. Difficult to untie, almost impossible to tear without a blade. His arms were against his sides. By the tensing of his neck she knew he was resisting, but there was little evidence in the rest of his body. He was utterly immobilized.

Her appraisal was efficient and professional. She had shut off the emotional response to seeing her husband.

Sherlock had the video looping as they both watched, seeking out any clue.

"Mary, if you need to step out, get water, you know, I'm sure Donovan would be happy to get you what you need." Greg said softly. His tone was what the police were trained to use with relatives of victims.

"I'm fine."

He was startled by her vehemency, but said nothing else.

The video played through again.

"Wait, Sherlock, look at his knuckles when they turn forward again." Both of them waited, and they paused the video as John turned the back of his hand towards the camera. There were small cuts and large bruises over the knuckles of his first three fingers. They were just visible in the slightly blurry footage. Mary caught Sherlock's eye, and they shared a brief moment of pride. The video continued to loop.

"The front of his shoe." Sherlock said quietly.

"And the bruise at his hairline." She replied.

"Fingernails of both hands."

"Different times?"

"Almost certainly."

Greg reached over to pause it. "What are you two on about? What are you seeing?"

Sherlock fully grinned this time as he answered, "John's been fighting back."

"And that's a good thing? Isn't that just going to get him beat on longer?"

_He doesn't get it._  A glance at Sherlock showed him thinking the same thought. Greg Lestrade's life held more danger than the masses, but he had now sense of what it was really like.

After watching and re-watching the clip for another twenty minutes they were certain there was nothing more to be noticed. They stopped it and turned to the other files. Sherlock to the cases, and Mary to the stories. His only instruction was to "Start in the German."

She was grateful he wasn't treating her like spun glass. It wasn't out of desire to prove her resiliency. After all, she had stared down and surmounted far more trying circumstances than she currently faced. She had seen-she had caused-more pain than John was in now. They were not actually trying to kill him yet.

That would come later.

Lestrade walked out to confer again with Donovan.

She turned back to the fairy tale.

Two versions in German and three in English later, and she had no more idea of how to proceed than she had before reading.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm? Oh, you're done, anything?"

"I've nothing useful from the story."

"And in general?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"If John gets wrapped in bombs in three days or not." She caught the flicker of his eyes when she said that.

"Assume he will not."

"Then Moriarty will attempt to break him. Either entirely and rebuild him with delusions. Or his goal will be more classically Stockholm syndrome."

"How long?"

"Three months, maybe four."

"And if this plays out in the next three days?"

She didn't say anything to that. They both already knew that answer.

"CCTVs please. Lestrade has them accessible from the laptop."

She opened a dozen camera feeds and set them all to simultaneously play starting at 7:20. Most, if not all, of the footage had been reviewed by the fine men of the Scotland Yard.  _I'll do my own reviewing, thank you very much._

There were hundreds of feeds to go through.

"Mary, phone."

"Where is it?" She wasn't going to waste time arguing. She had seen this game before.

"Your phone."

"What for?"

"You said Moriarty told you about John not Mycroft. He texted you, likely from John's phone. As you did not contact me inquiring about John's location prior to Moriarty's contact, then the appearance of John's continued freedom must have been maintained. You and John traditionally text between twelve and twenty times a day. Therefore, Moriarty texted you. I need to read them." Nodding, realizing she should have brought it out when he showed her the message he had received, and cursing her stupidity, she handed it to him.

"There, that's the last message I got before we think he was taken."

**Stay safe. Love you  
** **JW**

"And the messages after, there was nothing in them that seemed out of character?"

"No."

She watched him flick through them. Once, twice, then back up and he read again from the even earlier texts. She felt a flare of outrage at his reading the more intimate comments, but quashed it.  _Won't help to deny him data._ He returned the mobile and agreed, "Nothing far enough out of character for it to cause alarm, though with hindsight, he was taunting you."

She nodded.

She continued to watch the video feeds.

Most of the texts had been nothing of consequence, the normal affirmations of health, safety and love between a newly wed couple under government protection and the threat of an international terrorist.  _Maybe not so normal after all._  A few stood out now that she knew when John had ceased to be the author.

**Def a danger night.  
** **JW**

**Won't see you for a while.**  
 **Maybe I'll send pictures.  
** **JW**

**Maybe you'll send some too?  
** **JW**

**I wish you were here too.  
** **JW**

Then, the last one. The same as had been sent to Sherlock. The messages had seemed frustrated to her, but still John. It had seemed like he and Sherlock had been fighting more than usual, but given the pressure on both of them, she had thought nothing of it.  _And now that sick fuck has him. No, CCTV, keep looking for clues._ She allowed herself to shut out everything except the screen full of security cameras, eyes flicking over to any movement. Time dragged forward, and she found nothing.

Finally he spoke.

"Baker Street."

"The flat?"

"Yes, no. Not the flat. Come on, we're going to the pub. We need to find where they took him. Come on!"

Mary swept the case files and everything else into her bag. By the time Sherlock had swept out of the room, she was just behind him. He glanced back just before they reached the horde of Yarders in the main office.

"Look distraught."

_Easy enough._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- ok, this chapter was not as easy to write, because of Mary. I know that almost everyone hates Mary, I know that it is really easy to hate Mary, but I just don't. I think she's a BAMF. I think she's a force to be reckoned with, and I am going to make you like her. 
> 
> In other news, I know that this is currently happening in a very compressed time frame, but it will open up a bit in later chapters. 
> 
> Also, I finally got the last third of the plot worked out and outlined. Huzzah! Now I really can just write instead of constantly going back and changing things. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always, it makes me feel all warm inside when I see that.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: That violence tag is starting to apply. Descriptions of injury and suffering ahead, and it will get worse before it gets better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my brand new beta and britpick TeaAndCakes who has already prevented my insulting the Queen.

They had found nothing. Nothing at the pub. Nothing along the route back towards 221b. Nothing on the six alternate routes Sherlock had insisted they check. Somewhere between the pub and the flat John had vanished. Nothing of how or where, and therefore, nothing to examine.

Hours had been wasted scrambling around the area in question.

Sherlock's temper boiled just beneath the skin, like he was about to lose control.

As Mary followed him up the stairs she was certain that when it broke she would be the target.  _Fine by me. I could do with a row._ In the flat he just dropped into his chair and steepled his fingers in thought.

 _Oh no, no trouble Sherlock, none at all, I'll just get the bloody tea._ Her bag slid to the ground.  _You just sit there and stay comfy. I'm only carrying the bag, the case files, a laptop, and a baby. I'll get this. Tea for you as well? Maybe a few biscuits? Cake? Oh no, not a problem, It's not like I can feel my feet, so what does it matter if I stay on them a bit longer._ She knew that mentally whining at the man would not help, but she hurt, top to bottom, and had no other recourse for her anger. Saying it aloud would only set him off as well. Kettle set to boil, he went upstairs to John's bedroom and slipped out of her sweater, climbing into her favourite of his jumpers. It at least still smelled faintly of him.

As did the room.

He had been staying here of course. The Work, this case, was too important for him to do otherwise, not that the necessity of bringing down an international terrorist dampened how she had missed him. Mycroft's bunker was utilitarian; in Baker Street she could almost feel him beside her.  _No time for that,_  she reminded herself.

Back downstairs, she set a cup of tea beside the detective and stared.

After a moment he caved in with a scoff and drank.

Before she could sit with her own tea her daughter reminded her that she was pregnant and Mary grumbled her way to the toilet. She finally thought to take her shoes off while sitting there.

Curious that she couldn't feel them, she undid the zip on the side of the short boot and hissed. Her white socks were stained with blood.  _Dammit. I should have known better than to - dammit. Oedema, bad. Blisters I suppose, and they burst? John reminded me about this. Aah, Dammit, I know better than this, ah, ah, ow, that's worse than it's been._ Without the compression of the boot around her foot, the pain was returning. There was a clear line where the boot had kept her foot from swelling as far as the ankle had. So she re-zipped without removing them, washed her hands and ignored the echoes of pain reverberating up her calf.

"What's next then, Sherlock?" she announced as she returned. His eyes were the only thing to move. He was deducing again. She waited, seeing the crease between his brows deepen, hoping she had not been favoring the foot she could actually feel. "What's next?"

He continued to deduce, a slight head tilt becoming more pronounced as he struggled. Mary was in no mood to make it easy for him. This was the first time either of them had been back in the flat since Moriarty had taken John, and she could not help but see all the little indications of his living there. The kettle had still been out from when he last made tea; one of his shoes was stuck beneath a chair; his laptop was on the table.

She could have insisted that he stay with her when Mycroft escorted her to that bunker. It would have been pointless though and she knew it. At best he would have been there six hours before the detective had texted, and thus far, no power in Britain had been able to stop John from getting to Sherlock when he was needed. Or the other way around.  _Well, now isn't the time to go picking at that thought. More important things to do. Easy things though, Outsmarting Jim Moriarty for instance._  As much as she wanted to acknowledge the terror and despair that had engulfed her at seeing Moriarty's taunt, it would not help. So she suppressed it yet further and sat down.

She looked back at the man in the chair, waiting for instruction and receiving none.

"Right, I'll keep finding you towers then."

There was a noncommittal noise, but nothing else.

The homeless network that Sherlock used had been sending photos and addresses all day. All of them needed to be looked up and mapped. Busy work, almost, but necessary. Maybe she would see something that provoked an idea in the consulting detective's mind.

Most of them were worthless, too dilapidated, too public, too secure. The photo of the Tower of London made her smirk. "Well, yeah, that is a tower no one lives in, well done."

More tea was in order.

It wasn't until she had a refreshed mug that her body reminded her of the state of her feet. Sitting had let the pressure fade enough that feeling was returning. It was intense enough, and unexpected enough she lost control of her placid mask for just a flash.

That was all, one split second of reaction. But it was all Sherlock needed.

"You're injured."

_But not more specific than that. Ha. You don't know what it is do you?_

So, she dodged, "No, sweetie, I'm pregnant. They're similar, but not interchangeable."

No answer.

"Your back or your feet?"

"It's fine. I'm fine. Let it be. How do you want the towers organized?"

He didn't speak, just rose and went up the stairs. It only took a moment, and before she could manage to leave John's armchair he was back, medical bag in hand. He sat on the ground gracefully at her feet. She intended to shove him, or simply stand and walk away.

He was right, but she had no desire to admit it.

She actually had her mouth open to speak when she noticed. He hadn't made eye contact since they began their search through the city. He had markedly avoided it since they had returned to the flat. Even now she only caught a glimpse of his face.

Mary was convinced she had misread him at first. Sherlock had never shown that kind of look before. He had been more composed when she shot him in Magnuson's office. This was new. Something locked between terror, guilt, fury and nausea had clouded his eyes, if only for a moment.

He instantly had his expected sneer of disdain back in place, and the conflict was smothered. She was not going to forget the storm she had glimpsed, though.

 _Sherlock Holmes is...what? What was that? Panic? Is he panicking? Christ._  She hid a shudder. The implications of the greatest living detective being overwhelmed were too much for her to consider then.

She stayed silent.

* * *

 

Sitting in the darkened office in Scotland Yard, it took him several long minutes to banish the monolithic name that had replaced his structured and organized mind. It took longer still to rebuild his mind palace. As he assembled his thoughts they kept coming back together in the wrong shape. A particular shape that his brain was trying desperately to avoid thinking about.

Mary's arrival was enough of a motivation to drive him into the work

They had started immediately.

They had reviewed the footage sent. They had both recognized the indomitable will of John Watson in the face of torture and captivity. That Mary understood without him having to list all the evidence of John's suffering and John's rebellion made it possible to withstand seeing it.

They had tried to find something, anything on the streets that would give him a place to start searching.

His homeless network had seen nothing. It was possible he had been outbid there. It was more likely that Moriarty was simply that good.

He had been locked in his own skull despite the pretense otherwise since he had received that text. It had been necessary. He was standing guard within his own mind, wrestling his rebellious thoughts into place as soon as they flared. He was standing in front of a row of doors, and behind each were cascades of memory and deduction that kept prying the door open. Each time he had to rush over and slam it shut, holding it in place until another began to leak. There was no time for them to get out of control. There was no time to deal with them properly. No time to even eradicate them, not that he was capable of doing so at the time.

That he had been forced to divide his focus was bad enough.

_I was right. He is a dangerous distraction._

It was his only consolation. It did not help.

He flicked his eyes up as Mary forced him to take the tea. He scoffed. At least his external control was intact.

Away she went again.

Guilt rose with the gorge in his throat at the tea in his hand. He shoved that down as well. Thus far no one had implied that he was incapable of doing this. Mary had flatly said that it had to be him. Her words had echoed John's so much he had wondered if he had recounted the argument to her.

But no, it would have come up earlier than that. An argument about why John was home so little.  _No, they never argued about that. Mary has never complained on that score. Not since the day I came back. She has never tried to restrain John, keep him from cases, and since this began, she has been encouraging him._

_She has never exhibited any behavior societally expected from a pregnant wife._

Sherlock was hit with the familiar annoyance that he had not stolen the thumb drive on AGRA before John had destroyed it.

Since he had noticed her in front of him at the Yard, the only times she had been Mary Watson were when Lestrade had been present. Then, her mild-mannered alter-ego had taken the lead, seeming weak and scared, overwhelmed by it all: only there with Sherlock because he was the closest thing to John. She had slipped once, when they had noticed John's rebellion.

Lestrade had raised an eyebrow at it, but she had turned, and with a glance, confirmed what he wanted to see: a horrified wife and mother-to-be. Sherlock was certain she did not even remember doing it.

The deception had been as natural as breathing.

Of course he knew some of what she was. The Magnuson affair had made it obvious she had worked internationally in crime after work with a government intelligence agency.

He watched her as she returned. Spy and assassin were most likely with her skill set. Now he watched her, increasingly wary of the chance that he had been wrong. She was immensely skilled, and would be brilliantly placed to deliver the deathblow to Sherlock once the rest of the pieces were in place.

No, he was correct in his judgement of her. He had told John he could trust her. Whatever she had been, she had overwritten her past to become Mary Watson, and it was the kind of dedication that would not falter. Her only goal was John.

A little hesitation crossed her face causing her tighten her lips imperceptibly. Had he been doing anything but an active deduction at the time, he would have missed it.

"Youre injured."

She smiled sweetly at him, "No, sweetie, I'm pregnant. They're similar, but not interchangeable."

_True, but hardly my point. Pregnant, third trimester. Common problems. Loosening of ligaments holding together joints. Sciatica and arthritis symptoms. Excess blood and water retention result in edema. Fetus can exert pressure on spine. Possibility of Braxton-Hicks contraction. Possibility of real contraction. Didn't indicate pain until she moved. Upper body was relatively stationary. No look of fear, not contractions._

"Your back or your feet?"

"It's fine. I'm fine. Let it be. How do you want the towers organized?"

_Leaned forward, diagonally from hips. Not sciatica. Five hours of walking today. Her feet then. Shoes still on. Practical shoes but snug. Ah, cleaner beside the zipper. She went to take them off in the bathroom and wiped away the spatter from the streets. Decided not to take them off. Oedema then. Blisters. Burst Blisters. Will limit movement if left untreated._

_John's bag is still in his room._

Off he walked, without a word. She would only protest if he explained.

As expected, John's bag sat on the desk, fully stocked. He had been meticulous about keeping it that way ever since Mary had gone to Mycroft.

Sitting at her feet he removed wipes and a numbing gel left over from an experiment gone wrong, and would have begun immediately except for the gaze he felt burrowing into his head. She didn't understand. Of course his mind chose the exact moment he glanced up to flash with anxiety. It was shut down like everything else, yes, but it also kept her silent while he worked off her shoes.

The sight of blood stained socks, and the implication of her dedication was filed away in his mind. In several places the cloth was stuck into open blisters with dried fluid and blood. Mary said nothing as it was pulled away. She had not commented or complained the entire day. Not a doctor, and lacking anything approaching a bedside manner, Sherlock simply cleaned and bandaged her feet quickly. He moved the client chair in front of her, wrapped her feet in ice packs and towels, elevated them and brought fresh tea.

All of it in silence.

Whatever Mary was thinking was being well masked.

He wasn't thinking beyond the simple commands called forth from his knowledge of medicine.

"How do you want the towers organized, Sherlock?" she repeated.

"Location and heritage, but my network is still finding more. Don't begin until you have all of it." He retrieved her bag and placed it in her lap. "Go through the rest of the cases within two hours before and after the gap. Bring me anything unusual."

"Of course." She was slightly exasperated. "Sherlock, why did you do that? I'm a nurse, I could have just as easily done it myself."

"You are injured, and as you cleverly have noticed, you are pregnant. By my last estimation you can only reach your feet for nine seconds at a time before you begin to feel short of breath and nauseated. My doing it made more sense."

 _And it reminded me of him._ He flung his head to the side, letting the motion turn him to the other side of the room.  _No. Not now. She's right. No time for that now. There is no reason to think about him right now. Caring for him will not save his life._ he reminded himself, an echo of his retort to John during that first game of Moriarty's.

But he had no leads, nothing to start from. Moriarty had used random victims with each of the bombings prior to this. He had snatched someone just before contacting him, taunting him, but there had been something else in all of those messages, the photos. There had been some small thread left dangling. Something that he could worry at and bother and ponder until he unravelled all of it and found the answer inside.

This was Moriarty's game. Therefore there was something there. It had missed his observation.

That thought turned his stomach in a different way altogether. It ate at him to think he was so compromised.

It could not be permitted.

_Mind Palace...except...fine._

Better than it had been in his initial reaction, his mind was still disorderly. There was thick cloud of fear fogging his thoughts, his logic. Moriarty had beaten him several times now. He was getting farther and farther ahead. Much more, and nothing shy of a miracle would let him catch the consulting criminal.

He had to clear the fog. He had to think clearly again.

_Fine._

Everything he had ever heard or seen or known was somewhere in his mind. There were a few notable exceptions involving` overdoses, but if he dug long enough he was certain those were there too. The things he deleted were simply removed from the organization of his palace and thrown into the darkness beyond it.

Therefore, nothing was deleted permanently, merely misplaced.

Therefore, there was no cause for sentiment. This was the appropriate way to proceed.

It was.

It was necessary.

_But it's John._

The protests he had been raising since that text were pushed aside. John would understand. John would forgive him. John would yell at him for not doing it sooner. "Lives are at stake." he would say. It would not be permanent. It was not a mnemonic from primary school, these memories would return when he needed them again; when he could cope with them again.

It would let him think. He needed to think. He needed to think faster than he had ever done before, and in this state, it was impossible.

It was necessary.

John would understand. John would forgive him.

Eyes closed to keep Mary from noticing any uncontrolled response, Sherlock slipped to the far corner of his Mind Palace. All of the work he had done rebuilding it earlier had been successful. It was a coherent space, though not yet fully reorganized, and hazed by leaking emotion. Of course, that monolithic name still hung above him as well.  _Not much longer._

He did not hesitate this time, not now that it was decided. He did not stop to go into the room behind the door. He began walling it in, locked it down as tightly as any memory he had ever held.

When the last brick slipped into place, he then covered and coated it until it vanished, leaving behind a blank wall. Above him, the oppressive reminder wilted and drifted away. Left behind was a hollow, factual litany of data regarding Doctor John Watson, and the superb clarity of his immaculate mind.

* * *

 

For a moment as he clawed his way back into consciousness, John thought must have passed out drunk. The lingering haze of intoxication made his head float. His muscles were sore, his throat was raw. His body wasn't moving right. There was a throbbing in his skull. He was thirsty. He was lost.

"Sherlock…? Mary…?" His voice sounded fractured and raspy to his ears. The names had scarce sounded like words. More, it hurt, even to do that little.

After that haze faded though, he wished it would come back.

That first wave of pain rolled through him like the end of the world. What vision he had turned into a tunnel of grey leading him into a faint point of light. There was no way for him to identify where his limbs were, what was beneath him, or what was happening. All there was was the tide of hurt and a high, bright pain that obscured everything else.

It might have been hours before his mind cleared, or it might have been seconds.

He eventually struggled his way above the tide and begged his body to obey him.

_In. Out._

_In. Out._

_In, two. Out, two._

The only thing he could focus on for a long time was successfully moving air in and out of his chest.

Around him, the curtains obfuscating his capacity to think retreated just barely. But enough.

 _Small room. Bright. Too Bright. Too small. Can't stand. Drain in the floor. How long-what happened? Where? Arm hurts. Everything hurts. Arm feels wrong. Focus. Why? Shoulder? Yes. How? Can't move arms. Rope. Try._ The pain of trying to move threw him under once more.  _Careful. Idiot. Do it Slowly._

Several more long minutes of breathing gave him enough will to begin moving towards sitting. It took an eternity. He spent it with his eyes clenched shut, just trying to get onto his knees rather than his stomach. Even swearing took too much energy, so he cursed internally with all the variance and eloquence an officer in her Majesty's army could compose each time the physical pain eclipsed his will to continue moving.

He got to his side. He tucked his knees close. He adjusted his feet. He inched his way closer to the opposite wall. And when there was no way to stall any longer, he forced his torso off the ground.

Blackness swallowed him.

His eventual return put him in the same shattered state as before, with one solace; in passing out, he had not fallen over.

_Ok, Focus. Breathe. Think. Triage._

Doctor Watson hid behind clinical professionalism as he started assessing the damage.

His arm was dislocated and immobilized. He had no way to fix it while bound. There were deep purple bruised stripes over his thighs that felt like they wrapped around and over his arse as well. Narrow and long, they were probably from a cane or pipe, but the bones didn't feel broken. His wrists and the back of his hands had blisters raised across them, the sickly yellow of a burn. There were more across his chest and legs. Several had burst while he struggled upright, and they were weeping clear fluid. His lip was swollen, and he had bitten his tongue. The ragged desert in his throat referenced screaming he couldn't recall. His head felt thick, but not concussed; he had passed out from pain then.  _Or drugs._  He grimaced as he noticed the IV ports in his arms.

_Shit. Just drugs? Hydration? How long?_

He rolled his head down to his chest and shoulder, hoping to gauge time by beard growth, and found himself almost cleanly shaved. It had been eight hours, if that.  _My bruises are older than that. So then? Oh._

Realization again.

He was receiving medical care at the hands of his captors. That is, they were going to keep him alive. Rather than relief, he felt his chest tighten. In war, medical personnel that were captured often got a choice between execution and mending the enemy. He had never really needed to face the prospect of torture while he was a soldier.

_That sick fuck. It has to be him. It has to be Moriarty._

He looked over his body again. Burns, Caning, abrasions, the dislocated shoulder. All of it was painful, none of it would kill him. But he had no memory of receiving the injuries. There were plenty of drugs that could achieve that. Again, it was a hollow relief.

He had his doubts that would be the case the next time.

He had no doubt that there would be a next time.

Finally forced to shift by the pain in his legs beneath him, he managed to fall backwards, curling against the wall of the cell, braced in the corner. When he moved, his only thought had been to get it done, but his mistake was now obvious. The weight on his tailbone, previously causing a dull throb intensified. He had not escaped without bone damage after all.

John closed his eyes against the pain, and tried to stay distant.

 _Sherlock is looking for you._ He focused on that to avoid thinking of what he was quite certain was a fractured coccyx.

Not that it helped.

Now that he'd noticed it, It refused to fade.

A high soaring chorus of agony hollowed his mind of any thought but the sensation of broken, battered flesh. He lost his grip on suppression and the torment of his body overwhelmed him, slipping him back into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

The warm gold of the street lamps' glow had gone out, leaving only the cold gray of the new dawn in its place. The light spilled in through the windows onto the immobile form of Sherlock Holmes. He was reposing against the back of his chair with his knees hiked up on the table, his arms balanced in midair and his hands poised in an approximation of a dancer. He was ignorant of how bizarre he looked. Staring at the ceiling, intense eyes shifted about as he flicked through every fact he had regarding the case.

Gracefully he would gesture something, like an order to depart, as he rejected a theory.

It was well into the next morning before Sherlock came out of his thoughts. Mary had fallen asleep, pen in hand, note half finished. Somewhere in that time she had eaten and showered. There was a bag of crisps, cold tea, and one of the horrible high-calorie drinks.

He drank the vanilla atrocity, expecting to avoid a later discussion of his nutritive deficiencies. With her soundly asleep-she hadn't succumbed until past dawn-Sherlock was easily capable of extracting the notebook and case file from her hands.

She had been thorough.

His homeless network had as well. He had a photo and location of every disused or non-public tower within the bounds of London, adjacent brambles or not. Mary had listed them by location first, then a second time by characteristic. Historic, recently used, disintegrating, condemned, isolated, attached, standalone. Anything she had found to create subgroups.

It made it easier as he began placing pinpoints all over the map. There were dozens just within the triangle formed by the original cases. There were hundreds within London. Stepping off the couch, backwards over the coffee table, he scanned back and forth over the thoroughly speckled map. Too many, it had to be narrowed down farther.

Back over the coffee table, back onto the couch, dressing gown trailing behind him he began to mutter and pluck the excluded pins from the wall. He tossed them heedlessly over his shoulder. "No, no, no. Not you. No. Not you. Too open. No, no, no, no. No vehicle access. No. Not you. Or you. No. No."

"What the hell are you doing, man?" Mary gestured at the pins that had landed on her, including one in her hair, and another that had landed point first on her cheek.

"Eliminating possibilities." He snapped and returned to his task.

She fled to the kitchen, picking her way over the new minefield on the carpet. "I'm making you tea." He made a sound with no meaning. "You didn't sleep last night, you'll at least have some caffeine." Another sound.

"No. No. Not you…...ahhhh…..No. No. No. No."

She returned after a few minutes, extending the tea with the imperiousness of a queen. He took it and she waited until at least half had been consumed before she spoke. Sherlock knew she had something to say, but could not be bothered to identify it.

"You seem back to your normal self today."

_Why does she sound so….puzzled? offended? angry? She's too good to give away the emotion. Her words are too innocuous to draw from._

"Yes; I have a case." He had nothing else to say to that.

The silence was broken a few seconds later by her long exhale. "Ohhh, you did it.  _Well_ , that will be most beneficial in letting you solve it." He scowled at her. "But not fully I think, just enough to get back to work. Well, it was the right choice."

He was not going to touch that conversation, and for the first time in too long, he had no impulse to do so.

Luckily she continued on a different topic, "What have you found?"

"Nothing yet."

"Nothing?"

"Is your hearing slipping?"

"No, I just thought the great Sherlock Holmes could find a kidnapping victim rather quickly most of the time, even if the rest of us mere mortals never could."

He ignored her and continued plucking at pins. "No. No. Too many windows. Too close to a park. No. No. No." Even as they dwindled no great idea came to him. The puzzle had not yet snapped together to encourage him the certainty of his deductions. "Mary, in the texts, what are the ways the tower is described?"

"Uh," she flipped back in the notes, "here: forgotten, isolated, abandoned, former wonder, a marvel, enormously tall, a beacon, unassailable, a relic, and lost."

"Physical descriptions?"

"Stone, bright, reflective, tall, windowed, isolated, aging."

"Location?"

"Germany." She answered dryly.

"No, no, no, descriptions of the place. What was around it?"

"Trees, forest, a river, a lake, 'just beyond the forest', up the hills. Sorry, that part varies a lot. You're not gonna narrow it down by that."

"Unifying factors?"

"Bramble bushes surrounding it."

"Yes."

"How long do we have Sherlock?"

He stopped, contemplating the previous bombings, contemplating the modus operandi of one Jim Moriarty, contemplating the evidence they had received so far. "I believe the attack will occur before the end of tomorrow."

"Thirty...eight hours?" She asked, glancing at the time.

"Yes, so we need to move quickly. The primary victim will be in place in approximately thirty-five hours from now, and beyond that point it will be difficult to prevent the destruction of whatever the target may be. There is a small chance that Moriarty will change his established procedures, but it would be a statistical outlier."

"The victim?" She sounded overly tense for the subject of the question.

"Yes, Moriarty generally places them near the target in explosive vests. Do keep up Mary, you have been helping us on the previous events, try to actually use your brain."

More silence. Protracted and uncomfortable for her based on how she shifted in her seat.

"I just hope you know Jim as well as you think you do. Because nobody else is going to be able to find..the victim, before he's strapped to a bomb and sent to his death."

_There's that tone again. She's upset. Why? Nothing I have said was less than accurate. We have limited time and need to begin working more efficiently. Wait. Something else. About the victim? The Doctor? No. Wait. What? Did she-?_

_Oh._

_OH._

"You called him Jim."

"What?"

"Just now, you said you hoped I know Jim as well as I think I do. Jim. JIM. Awfully familiar sounding to call him that. We never refer to him that way."

She blinked in response. Nothing else. But it was too controlled, too flat. Despite showing not a single tell of a lie, Sherlock grinned wolfishly at the knowledge that he had found one.

"It's how he signed his text. Stands out." She said belatedly.

_An honest mistake, coupled with a bit of sleep deprivation and the cottony-ness of the average brain in the morning? No. Not her. Something is missing. Find it._

"True. He does."

"Just like you sign yours SH. And John with JW."

"But you call neither of us by our initials."

"Because they aren't easily pronounceable. And because I knew you before seeing your name as initials at the end of a text." She was sounding increasingly tense.

_Time to push harder then._

"Unlike AGRA?"

Sherlock's reflexes were something that he kept regularly sharpened by his interactions amongst London's criminal class. However, it was only because he had started moving concurrently with her that he avoided the fist that was approaching his face.

He was exceptionally fast.

She was more so.

Had she not been pregnant, and ever so slightly limited in her available movement, he was certain he would have woken up in a few hours, trussed and delivered to Moriarty.

Instead, following a skirmish of deflected and dodged blows, both parties froze in place; each had a gun at the other's head, each had a grin of gallows humor, and each was certain they were justified.

"Jim?"

"Yes, but it isn't-."

How the interaction would have unfolded from there was aborted by the sound of Mrs Hudson at the door. In the space of a thought, in the time it took her to enter the room, both guns had been slipped away, Mary had reverted to the distraught wife, and Sherlock placed a conciliatory hand on her shoulder, at least partially to ensure he could drop her as needed.

So, into this sweet scene of tender emotion, walked Mrs Hudson, with a plate of snacks.

 _Nothing quite like the expectations of the average mind to complete a disguise._ He thought as his landlady made polite small talk, and dropped off the fresh biscuits. "Just this once, since, well, You'll find him Sherlock, I know you will. And don't you worry Mary. He'll be back before you have a chance to miss him. Sherlock's never one to give up."

They made the appropriate noises until she departed, and tacitly determined to sit down and discuss the interrupted topic sans weaponry.

"Do you work for Jim Moriarty?"  _Should text Mycroft, may need his services on this after all. His people are better at long term interrogations._

"I do not."

"Don't believe you."

She pursed her lips and nodded once. "Of course you don't. But as it is the truth, and as I know you will do nothing without having genuine proof of my guilt, for John's sake if nothing else, I am not overly concerned with you killing me."

"You should be."

"No I shouldn't. Don't lie to me Sherlock, I know when you lie, I'm not John."  _Yes, you always have. Not as easily tricked as most._ "Have a nice time in your Mind Palace this morning? Finally decided to just cut him out? Easier choice, it makes sense to me, I'd have suggested it, but I didn't think you had the bollocks to actually carry through."

 _No, I didn't, actually._  He wanted to say for a moment, but was too in control now, "There is a case. One with a delightfully interesting twist. So,  _Mary_ , tell me all about  _Jim_."

"I never worked for him."

"So you said."

"I know him. Knew him, rather."

"School chums."

"Age difference, Sherlock."

"Before or After?"

"After the CIA, before he met you."

"Colleagues."

"No."

"Lovers."

"No."

Options flashed as he stared at her.  _Mary Watson, AGRA, married to John Watson, Nurse. Former CIA. Former Criminal. Marksman. Assassin. Knew Moriarty. Not a colleague, not a lover, not at school._

"Relative."

"No."

_Age difference. Much older than he is. Not a personal relationship. Never been mentioned. Something she does not want her husband to know. oh._

"Ah." The puzzle snapped together.

"Well done lovey, I knew you'd get there eventually. Didn't want to spoil your fun and just tell you." She grinned patronisingly. Had he been anyone else he was certain she would have patted him on the head.

"He worked for you."

"Yes."

Again, that flare of outrage that he had not reviewed the AGRA files returned.

"Tell me everything."

She nodded, but instead of speaking she walked into the kitchen for the plate of biscuits and a refill of her tea. "There isn't much. He was brought in for two jobs. I never worked with him directly. He spent less than two minutes in a room with me."

"When?"

"Nine years ago."

"Details."

"He was hired for a bank job, a goon, didn't have much use for intelligence on the task. He completed it, but one of the others was locked in the vault, and was left behind. The second job was an assassination. He was told to do surveillance, and track the target. He wanted to do it himself. The rest of the team removed him. I met him, he told his story, he was fired with a warning. If he hadn't been related to someone above me, he'd have been shot then and there."

"Who was he related to, and where was this?"

"The States, and I don't know, I only had names for people below me, never above."

"Would any-"

"No, don't bother, there are no associates I can contact. After I left, I started sending anonymous tips to the appropriate governments. Everyone below me is dead or in custody. Everyone above me would kill me on sight. Unlike you, I tidied up after myself when I faked my death, and the person I was, stayed dead. I didn't think about Moriarty until his return. He looks the same."

"Why wasn't he sacrificed to the appropriate government as well?"

"What was the name of the waiter that brought you the wrong drink three years ago? You dont know? Hm, well.  _That's_  how minor a player he was at the time."

"That has changed."

"You don't say."

He crossed away, to the windows, fingers idly playing with the gun in the pocket of his dressing gown.

She faltered, then said, "I think my overreaction just now might be influencing you to believe I am still the woman I once was. I don't believe there is any way for me to convince you otherwise. The last person to reference my past in that way was Magnussen, if that makes my response more reasonable to you. We are also both being influenced by high levels of cortisol and epinephrine due to several months of high stress levels."

There was a sound of fabric on fabric.  _Retrieving her gun?_  A clink of metal on wood.  _No, she's set it on the table now. Fascinating. Proving her faith in me? Proving her story's veracity with an overt gesture of non violence._

"Those that have tried to kill me since I left, and there have been attempts, all began similarly to what you just said. Your bad luck."

_Mycroft must be able to retrieve the files. Some, any._

_He would read them as well._

_He would not approve._

_She would be taken._

_Her husband would cease speaking to me. Not that he can now. Kidnapping. High Probability that he will be killed tomorrow._

"I am no longer that person; however, I will use every skill I have to be able to retrieve John. You will just have to trust me."

_Impossible to determine veracity at present. Threaten? Test? Banish? Solve the case alone. No, won't leave, not willing to kill her yet. Dedication to her husband is unparalleled. Loyalty to him will not falter. Initial deductions hold true. She can be trusted._

_Yes. Decided._

He turned back, placed his gun, the Doctor's actually, on the table by hers.

"We need to identify the tower in question, Mary, I expect we will find him there."

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and if you have critique or praise or theories, I love seeing them. I hadn't realized how much I had missed writing until I started on this.  
> And since I was asked in a comment: I TRY to at least get to a chapter a week, but I don't want to promise anything. I write quickly, but I research slowly, and I keep trashing chapters and starting from a blank page.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooookay, this is a doozy. Sorry for the delay, I'm helping plan a wedding, and I kept trying to split this into two chapters, but it never worked, so I am just giving you all of it in one big lump.  
> As always, my thanks to TeaandCakes for keeping me from sounding so American, and pointing out my contentious relationship with grammatical law.

"Come On!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder at Mary as he sprinted down the corridor after the suspect. In baggy trousers, hoodie and sunglasses he was the stereotypical thug, as was his path through the building and into the carpark below. Cliche did not lessen the amusement of chasing someone for Sherlock though. The suspect had run up to the roof, jumped buildings, slipped down the stairs and was starting to double back- _headed for the tube, large crowds, easy cover-_  without getting away from the pursuing detective.

The boy hurdled the rubbish bins, knocking a rack of empty boxes across the alley. It was not enough to stop his pursuer, but it did slow Sherlock for a moment. Unfortunately for the absconding youth, he was not smart enough to continue without a taunt.

The delay was ill advised.

Sherlock cleared the boxes in time to watch as the boy was snatched. Stepping into the alley from the opposite end, Mary snagged his shoulder, spun him away from her, kicked out his knees, and pinned him to the wall of the alley by the pressure point on his neck.

Sherlock couldn't avoid grinning.

Her gun was still in her waistband, unneeded.

The boy was swearing as colourfully as he could- _nothing special, ran away from his parents in Manchester less than six months ago, an argument over his school marks-_ but was not getting away from her.

"Thank you."

"No problem at all. I thought you'd end up down here," she answered. He gestured and Mary turned the kid's head to face Sherlock rather than the rubbish pile. He fought it for just a moment. "Ah-ah, don't make it harder, sweetie."

Sherlock made a show of extracting his mobile and sending a text. "The police will arrive in six to ten minutes, you have until then to tell me enough that she decides to let you run along."

"Fuck you, man."

"Very clever, but I don't think that is going to motivate her."

"Fuck you."

"How did you come to work for Jim Moriarty?"

"Who? I dunno no Jim!"  _Lying._

"You've never spoken to him directly, however you met with his associate several times, and it was the presence of his name within the negotiations-threats-that persuaded you to do as asked. I already know that you are the arsonist responsible for burning down Emilio's Bakery. As that has been proven to be associated with the extensive terrorist plot currently being enacted against this nation, referred to by the media as 'Moriarty Mayhem', I expect you can see why it would be in your best interest to cooperate. Unless you'd like Mum and Dad and your baby sisters back in Manchester to see your face on the telly tonight, labelled a co-conspirator?"

"Look, some guy just handed me a phone and a wad of cash, I dunno know anything else. Come on, I didn't have anything to do with the bombs, come on, guy. Be cool."

Sherlock caught his eyes, cheshire grin nearly splitting his face. "What about the phone? Make? Style? Were you called or texted instructions?" The money was irrelevant, Moriarty knew better than to pay such a low level grunt with anything traceable.

"It was an iPhone, man. I got sent a picture and a time."

"How did you know to set a fire?"

"Because thats what I do! That's what people pay me for. Come on, let me go, nobody got hurt. I don't do that shit."

"Do you still have the phone?"

"Nah Man, I threw it in the river."  _Lying._

"No."

"Fine, I sold it."  _Lying._

"NoPe."

"Alright fine! I've got it on me."

"Mary."

She let him stand. In a burst of terrified bravery, he flung the phone at Sherlock's face and sprinted away. Sherlock shook his head, pocketed the phone and walked with her to the end of the alleyway. One of Lestrade's officers was already assisting the young man into the back of the police van.

He was still swearing.

The Detective Inspector joined them. "Just a dumb kid, yeah? Anything more than that?"

"No. However, he was most helpful."

"He still had it, then?" Greg asked eagerly.

Sherlock grinned again, pulled out the phone and began looking.

_Modified from standard issue. Something has been added. Separate GPS tracer most probable. No passcode for entry. Idiot. No contacts. No incoming calls. Three outgoing, all placed today. Too lengthy to be business. Girlfriend then. Didn't use it for personal use right away though. No downloads. No music. No pictures. Except, yes. Emilio's. Location attached. Time specified. 7:22_ _Hm, he was a few minutes late on the target._

"He didn't have a motive or a stake in all this?"

"Just the cash they waved at him. He's a relative innocent."

"Hey, at least we finally have something to go on. You want me to have the boys run it?"

"No need." This was the first real break they had made. The first substantive evidence. They had found two others of the four that had been given direct instructions for that night. Unlike this boy, the others had listened and destroyed the phones after the job was done. "You'll want to keep him in custody for a time, it's possible he'll be killed for failing to follow orders."

"Right." The DI smiled more softly at Mary. "Surprised you're chasing after him, you know. Though I can't figure John woulda married anybody who couldn't hold their own. But, you know that if you need to-"

"Swoon? I think I'll be fine, Greg. Anyhow, Sherlock's pretty fast. He'd catch me."

They both turned, the faint glow of hope born of the potential of the newly obtained phone was making them both giddy. Sherlock was not in a temper to indulge them.

"Text if your officers see anything." He said, already heading back to the main road for a cab. He and Mary had narrowed the list of holding locations considerably, and sent Lestrade a dozen to investigate. Each location was found to be empty, but there were now officers on lookout at each one of them.

Cab hailed, he glanced quickly at the driver-a permanent reflex now-and slid into the seat. Mary was still right behind him.

It was a bit past nine when they got back to Baker Street, both of them silent except the tapping of their phones. Automatically, Mary entered she turned to start making the tea, and he began to deduce.  _Still anxious about our conversation of yesterday morning. Reasonable. Performance this morning was exemplary. Performance last night; likewise. Excellent Asset. May still be traitor. Awaiting additional evidence. Current Prognosis remains same. She can be trusted._

Tea cup, saucer, protein drink and phone were soon sitting on the desk in front of him.

He ignored everything but the phone. His fingers steepled and pressed against his lip. He stared down at the mobile. The next move in the game was his. It would be impossible to achieve a victory solely through the use of the phone, but it was the most powerful tool he had had at his disposal thus far.

_Phrasing. Phrasing. Must be perfect. Needs to be exact. Either sound like him or admit identity. Sound like him. Proper slang and anxiety needed._

**U got moar work?**

_No. Hm. Delete._

**U got work 4me?**

_Yes. That is more like him. Send. Wait._

He looked back up. She was watching him. Her expression was pointed, insistent. After a few seconds standoff, he conceded the battle regarding the tea, and took a sip. This was apparently a trait the Watsons shared. Her shoes were still on, though he knew the pain they were causing. She took another paracetamol, wincing. However, as the only remedy would have been to stop utilising her, he made no comment.

**You were supposed to destroy this phone.**

**Srsly man? No work?**

**Best behavior until dark.**  
 **Blackout zone continue.  
** **Destroy phone.**

**What zone?**

**Destroy Phone.**

He would not be able to push harder. Not that it was necessary. Lestrade had brought them a map of reported crimes the night before. There was a region free of crime centered roughly over the flat.

If they were lucky, they had less than ten hours left to solve the case. If they were unlucky, it would be far less, depending on what Moriarty's people would consider night. He threw the phone to Mary, now seated in the armchair opposite him. Reading it passed a wave of determination over her features. She tossed it back and pulled out her own phone.

"Yard still has nothing to report." She said reading from her screen. "We need new options." A few moments of staring at the map was interrupted by Sherlock's query.

"In what category?"

"Any of them. All of them. Have your network get every tower in London. In use or not. Any type. Have them send it through to me."

"Mary, the sample size would be unmanageable, do try to think these things through."

"Better ideas?"

It grated on him.

She grated on him.

He sent the text anyway, and snapped at her, "Turn off the sound on your phone, I don't need to hear it chirping at me."

He rose and pondered the locations of the various notable towers in London, beginning to slip into his Mind Palace for further examination. There was something missing.  _Clearly. If it were all in place then the puzzle would be solved._ He bobbed his head side to side, pulling off the suit jacket and twitching his arms briefly. His fingers danced just slightly more than usual. The mounting pressure to solve the case combined with the imposition of Mary Watson had him aching for a smoke.

_None in the flat. Can't waste time going. Homeless network? No. Already paid off by John Watson not to comply. Billy? No. Infatuated with Molly, will not assist. Have to wait._

He rolled his neck again, centering in on the maps, when he felt a box pressed into his hand. Nicotine Patches. Full box. Mary nodded and returned to the chair, adding locations to the lists as she received messages.

Two patches later, he was just starting to sort out a pattern-or the lack of one. The businesses targeted were chosen by location, nothing more. The perpetrators were all new to Moriarty's web. There were no allusions or clues within the names of the perpetrators, their initials, the businesses or any combination of them.

_This time is different. Why? Moriarty used allusions to fairy tales during the Rich Brook ploy. He used them to highlight his role. It was an association he wanted me to follow. He is using them again, there is some thread he wants followed. Where is it?_

_No. Wrong. Go back. Start at the the beginning of this round. The footage from Moriarty. No. Earlier. The bomb in the bank. The dart. Why bother sedating John Watson?_

New Message. Molly Hooper.

**Rerun all labs re: J. Watson.**  
 **Full Tox screening.  
** **Screen Everything.**

**SH**

She confirmed a moment later.  _Good. There are several reactive compounds that would not appear on a standard toxicology screening. There are solutions that would respond to a second injection. First half of a set? Was it used to incapacitate him faster? Analogy for the taking of the child in the story?_

_No, no relation to the story._

_This is a variable. How is it a variable?_

The chirp of a message alert interrupted. "Shut them off Mary, you'll be getting them non stop soon."

"Don't be an arse. I did. That was your phone."

He glared.

New Message. Lestrade.

**John on CCTV.  
** **NSY. Now.**

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

John Watson sat on the metal chair, eyes fixed on the door, and ready to move at any sign of it opening.  _Fucking bastard._  He flexed his left hand compulsively.

His hands were, for the first time since he had been taken, unbound. Two enormous brutes had dragged him into the room, much larger than his cell. They had locked his feet to the legs of the chair which may have been welded directly to the floor for all the good his rocking had done to move it. After he was secured, they had cut off the wrapping around his chest and arms; the knife caught flesh and left a trail of blood oozing towards his stomach, but it was ignored.

The men had stared at him, looming, and gestured wordlessly at his shoulder.

Not knowing if he would get another chance, he put his shoulder back in its socket. By the time his vision had cleared of lights and haze, they had handcuffed his arms behind his back. The low back of the chair had a long horizontal bar below the level of his waist, making it impossible to rise or move.

With the cuffs directly over his burnt wrists, the raw flesh was screaming at him; but since he had no way to assuage it, he pushed the thought away. The broken tailbone was just a constant low murmur, so long as he sat carefully.

The room was overwhelmingly white, just like the cell.

_Disrupting my sense of time. Arseholes._

That damn forced march had been the only glimpse he had caught of the outside. If he had half of Sherlock's skill, then that excursion would have told him everything. All John knew was that it had been morning rush hour when they had shoved him into the crowded street and told him to walk to a van, making sure to stare directly at the security camera ahead of him.

_Arseholes. That was for the positive ID. And to make sure they saw that damn vest. Dammit. Controlling, manipulative cock. How long will it take Lestrade's people to find the footage? A day? Do they have a day? Do I have a day?_

His instinct when he'd been told to walk to the other van on pain of detonation was to start cursing at them. His second instinct had been to make a dash for the nearest open area, to minimize the damage and victims once the sniper blew the vest. It would have been the only choice.

Except Moriarty was too clever for that. John was dropped onto a busy street, pressed close by buildings, houses actually. There was no-where for him to run, no open space to die in while minimizing casualties.

The only options left had been to do as he was told, or to murder a few dozen people with his stubbornness. As much as he wanted to thwart the bastard, he was not willing to kill so many.

Now he was back in his prison, uncertain how long he had slept since the man in the van had jabbed him with another sedative. They had shaved his face again; but they could not hide his body's effort to heal. The oldest of his bruises that he could see had gone a bit yellow around the edges.  _Two and a half days. Maybe three._  Inaccurate, but the only guess he had.

That aligned with Moriarty's previous pattern.

He realized abruptly, his head was clearer than it had been in his cell. Either they had dosed him to keep him coherent in this room, or they had dosed him to keep him overwhelmed in the other. Both were a bit horrifying. The former because it meant they wanted something from him, and he had nothing to give. The latter because it spoke of a chemically induced psychological torture to come.

_Breathe. Stay still. Don't rip open any more blisters. Don't be an idiot. I can't control what they do. Just survive it Watson. Breathe. Try not to get killed yet._

_Three days._

He had spent too much time around Sherlock, too much time working on Moriarty's puzzles. He knew that they had never found one of the victims between the time they were taken and when they were brought to the target location. Some they had solved before the kidnapping. Some they had solved at the eleventh hour. Never between the two. They had yet to find anything leading them closer to Moriarty's base of operations.

_Well, I'm_   _closer now,_ he thought blackly. In a normal kidnapping, after forty-eight hours the police were unlikely to find the victim alive.

This was not normal. He knew that.

Moriarty was never normal. He was clever and sick and a psychopath. Whatever he had planned was lengthy.  _Bastard can probably go months without repeating himself_. Physical pain was not what prompted the shudder that ran down John's spine though. Physical torture either killed you or it didn't. If his captors pushed too far, it would throw him into shock. He was a doctor, he would let it happen. He would encourage it. It would kill him. Simple. Not a pleasant death, but superior to the ways many went.

But there were still IV ports in his arms.

There was another doctor here. One who certainly had orders to keep John Watson alive.

Every indication proved that pain would be the least of his worries soon. He shuddered again, knowing how easy it would be to break him with the right pressure points.

_No. Don't anticipate. Distract yourself._

He knew that Mary must have been told by now, and grinned at the image of her scaring the hell out of Mycroft's people. She would never stay in that bunker now. She had probably gone directly to Sherlock upon hearing about him. John tried not to smile, but it was a nice thought. The two of them really would be a nice match, as he'd said before. She would berate him for not solving it fast enough. He would berate her for overestimating her limits while so pregnant.

He hoped they were eating.

He hoped they would take care of each other, after.

He hoped Sherlock would help with his daughter.

He knew that Sherlock would eventually find the letter on his laptop, so that was taken care of. When his daughter was old enough, it would be given to her. John couldn't explain the prescience that prompted him to write it a few weeks earlier, but was glad he had.

When he died-if they let him die-after whatever they had planned had broken-

_No. Don't anticipate._ He hadn't braced himself for torture while he was a soldier, but he had sat in the same lecture, heard the same instructions and advice as every other member of his outfit. Don't anticipate the pain. Don't antagonize them. Tell them what they want to hear. Compartmentalize your pain. Remember, someone is trying to find you.

Most of it would not help him here.

But someone was trying to find him. Two someones at least.

He heard the door open and snapped his head up to meet eyes with Jim Moriarty.

Smug, confident and immaculate in his customary Westwood, the man sauntered into the room, trailed by the same two brutes.

"Doctor Watson."

" _Jimmy_."

_Good job not antagonizing him._

John whined as a fist crashed into his jaw. Blood began leaking out of his lips within seconds.

"Decided to be brave have you? Hmmm, good. That's just going to make all of this be Oh. Such. Fun. I have sooo many ideas for you."

"Starting with your greatest hits? Kidnapping? Semtex? Very boring."

Jim laughed and smiled possessively.

"Something like that, Johnny. You know," he drawled, "I hope you were at least a bit shocked that I'm not dead. Don't you want to know how?"

John recalled Sherlock listing off seventeen different possibilities explaining the criminal's apparent suicide as they drove away from the airport that day. One of them must have been correct, but it had never been a priority to solve. "Nope. You will be again soon." Another tremendous rush of pain as the fist crashed across his jaw once more.

Jim Moriarty peeled back his lips as if he was smiling. "You know, your little exhibition today was for Sherlock. He's behaving very strangely. Him and that wife of yours are scurrying all over London looking for you. You seem to be coping with all this just fine.  _They_  aren't taking it all that well. Of course, you are going to take this  _next_  part...less well." The man was still standing by the door, surveying him. "It's a shame my man messed up the dose that first day. I wanted you to forget the drive over, sure, but he gave you too much, and now you can't recall any of the  _fun_  we had that night. And it was fun, John. Such fun. You scream beautifully."

_Ok, that at least explains the gap. Drugs are better than a concussion. Breathe._

"Don't worry, I killed him for you. Can't have someone so careless working on you. Of course this means I'll have to start all over again, I'll have to repeat. UGH. Boooring. Necessary though. Can't have you forgetting about it this time. When you forget all that's left is the pain, and that's not enough for me. No, no no. Not nearly enough."

_Fuck._

"I thought that night I had worked out just why he keeps you around. Why he keeps you so near to hand. You are so very dreadfully ordinary after all. But then, that night, you were  _very_  compliant, very talented. I had a great time, and you were just so  _willing_." Moriarty licked a slow path around his lips, eyes sparkling with the closest thing to happiness John ever wanted to see there. John couldn't stop himself from locking his jaw together as he followed the implication. He couldn't stop whatever expression had just crossed his features that was causing the younger man to laugh like he had won the lottery. He had no memory of the time just after his capture. Moriarty could be telling the truth. "Oh Johnny, you think you can stop me? Cute. And all that anger in your eyes? Just adorable."

_Breathe. Breathe._

"Don't worry, after a while, I won't have to force you. You'll ask for it. You'll beg me for it. And ooh, baby, you should hope that happens soon. I'll be in such a better mood after."

"You may as well just kill me now. Because I'll bite off anything you put near me." He spat, trying to fill it with all the contempt and insult he could muster around his fear.

Moriarty stepped closer, leaning into the chair, just far enough away to prevent getting cracked in the nose with John's forehead. He sat one finger against John's throat, and smiled again, gently caressing the carotid artery as it rapidly pulsed. "No. No. No, no, NO. I am not going to kill you. I'm not going to let you die either. That's my present for him. Later, much much later, when he asks me so very nicely, and when he has behaved himself long enough to earn a treat, I will  _allow Sherlock_  to kill  _you_. You know how stubborn he is, it'll take ages and ages. But no you've got something to look forward to. Just think about his face, how sad he's going to be."

John worked his jaw a moment, looking sick. Moriarty gazed down, self assured, insane, and unsuspecting.

A huge blast of blood and saliva sprayed over his chest and face leaving flecks of red against the white silk shirt. For a breath afterwards, the room was still except for the roll of bloody spit making its way down the madman's cheek.

Then it exploded.

One of the men grabbed his head, pulling it back sharply and wrapping something around his neck, twisting it to cut off his air. Moriarty ripped back, running to grab something from the space behind John. He didn't even have time to wonder what is was before the Irishman was back, straddling his lap with a long serrated blade held between their faces.

"DO THAT AGAIN! Do IT! Do it, Johnny-boy and I will cut off everything you have to spare and send it back to your wife and your boyfriend wrapped up with a bow and I will keep you alive and awake through every second."

John tried to breathe to keep calm, but got nothing into his lungs.

He was held there, vision narrowing to the maniac over him whose eyes were glittering and whose mouth was caught in a rictus. The man and the blade pinned him there as much as the goons and the handcuffs. Light bounced off the keen edge of the steel as it shook slightly.

His pulse beat furiously in his head.

"That's your only warning Johnny." His voice was cold but back to the tone of perversion and exaggeration he often used.

Abruptly, he could breathe again, and he gulped hungrily at the air, coughing, and willing his vision to return to normal.

"Sherlock won't handle it well if I start sending him lover's tokens carved out of your skin. Who knows what trouble he'd get into. Try to show some compassion, Doctor. If you both behave it doesn't have to be so bad." He wiped off his face with a monogrammed handkerchief then crammed it into John's mouth. He smirked, nodded to the men, and left.

John panted around the gag, trying to fight the panic. It had been three days. He wasn't going to be another suicide bomb. They were not going to find him. Escape was impossible. He was going to be used as a goad against his best friend until both of them were dead or broken. Unless he died fast enough.

_I can still take control of this. I can. They're still looking. Breathe._

Behind him he heard a blowtorch start.

_Fuck._

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

Mary stared at Sherlock who muttered about the brilliance of it, stared at the screen where her battered husband was wrapped in explosives, and fell into memory for a moment.

" _No, I never said that, Mary, I know about the rumours, and the gossip, but No." John laughed into the wine as she sat next to him. They were curled up by a fire after dinner. Sherlock had been back for more than a month. They were officially engaged, and now that John was less inclined to throw things when conversation turned to Sherlock, Mary had started asking more questions._

_She had still got him a bit sloshed first though._

" _Oh come on, you must've been. Everyone always says so. Have you read the things people have said on your blog? Have you seen the pictures the press has of the two of you?"_

" _Yeah, why is that Mary? Why does everyone assume me and my best mate were shagging at the edge of crime scenes? Enlighten me." He kissed her neck and drank a bit more._

" _Well, you were living together."_

" _Flatmates, Mary."_

" _Mrs Hudson always thought so, as did Greg, and they know you both better than anybody. You were always running after each other and taking care of each other, and you protect each other."_

" _Friends aren't allowed to do all that?"_

" _Of course they are, but, John," she hesitated before broaching the subject, "That night with the bonfire. I saw him. You know that, I saw him when he realized you were in danger. That wasn't a normal response for just a friend."_

" _Sherlock isn't normal."_

" _Never said he was." She turned and kissed him. "And joking temporarily to one side, I'm not saying you two were an item, even if the rest of London won't believe it, even if I don't care if you were, but you're very important to him. You know with him back, you're going to be living something a bit more like a movie than a normal life again, so you should know the stakes."_

" _What? You want me to go running after him, getting shot at, getting kidnapped, and being generally mid-peril every other case?"_

" _Not really something I want, but it's what you want."_

" _You'll let me keep doing cases?"_

_She laughed. "I insist you do. I saw him when someone tried to take you away, you think I'd put myself in that line of fire? I also happen to know you once offered to blow yourself up to save him. I'm not a moron. I'm not going to stop you seeing your best friend. You'll go and do cases, you'll get into trouble, and I'll take you to A &E whenever you need. And I'll make sure there's food and tea and milk in both flats all the time. I'll take any bit of you I can. And since he came back, you've been-happy. Can't get in the way of that."_

" _I was happy with you."_

" _Not like this, you weren't." She smiled compassionately, certain it was true._

_He was grinning like a lunatic. "What did I do to deserve you?"_

" _Everything."_

_They fell into kissing for a time. Sweet, loving and content. When they broke apart, she continued. "John, seriously, and I don't ever want this to happen, but have you thought about what would happen to him if you were ever, I don't know, kidnapped?"_

_John smirked. "I've been kidnapped. Several times now, matter of fact. Something of a fad amongst the criminal class. I know what happens. He comes and finds me, usually at the last possible moment in the most dramatic fashion imaginable. But that's what he does. He comes, and he finds me."_

" _Yeah, but I mean, what if he couldn't? The longest he's ever had to look was a few hours. What if he couldn't? He'd... I don't know what, but I think he'd tear London apart trying to find you. And I don't think he'd be worried about legality as he did it. I know he'd not be bothered about ethics either. He cares about you so much, and he doesn't think clearly when you're in danger."_

" _He doesn't have feelings like that. He's Sherlock."_

" _He does John, it just doesn't look like yours or mine. I'm worried it would kill him. I - look, I know I'm not supposed to talk about this, I know we don't talk about this, but I already know it nearly killed you when he jumped. And then you almost - - I know what you were planning - -"_

_He set his glass down, and grabbed her hand to stop her, "Have you ever heard of something called a Mind Palace?"_

" _Are you just trying to change the subject?"_

" _No, no. It's a thing he does. He has everything sorted and filed and memorized so he never forgets anything that he puts in there."_

" _Okay."_

" _Well, he compartmentalizes everything. Anything he doesn't need just gets deleted."_

" _How does this-"_

" _I'm getting there. I overheard him and his brother once. Apparently, and doesn't this sound convenient? When Sherlock got overwhelmed before by feeling, by 'sentiment' as the Holmes' call it, he just deleted the lot. All of it. That way it wouldn't distract him."_

" _That's terrible."_

" _Yeah."_

" _That's the saddest thing I ever heard."_

" _Yeah."_

" _So, he would just delete his memory of you if you were in danger."_

" _No, seems like it would just be all the emotions, the sentiment, and he'd keep all the facts."_

" _That's the worst thing I've heard in a long time."_

" _I know, isn't it? But it would be better than the alternative. He nearly killed this American agent for hitting Mrs Hudson, and that was comeuppance, he had already saved her."_

" _What?"_

" _Oh, right, official story is that he fell out a window a couple of times." She laughed and leaned back into his chest. He told her the rest of that story, about the Americans, about all the parts he had not posted to the blog._

_She let the topic fade as John talked and joked._

_We were so happy._  Mary thought as she tried to drag her attention back to the CCTV footage currently projected on the screen. John walked unsteadily, his arms hidden inside the coat, like a caged fox, trying to find somewhere to run. But the street was packed, a residential area, and Mary could see his frustration mount as he resigned himself to the instructions he must have received.

He climbed into an identical unmarked van, wincing, and was gone once more. They had watched it over and over, but not even Sherlock could find a clue to where he was being held.

Either of them could list his injuries. They knew he was coherent this time. They knew he was angry, but still following orders.

The vans were nondescript, and even if they had been labelled and glowing, it would not have mattered. An hour after John's appearance, two hours before the Met noticed him in the street, the vans were found burning by the river. They were seen traveling through a car wash just before. Moriarty was obfuscating the evidence as much as possible.

Mary looked away from her husband's anguished eyes and back to the only man who had a chance to find him. Sherlock was muttering at his phone. The website for the car wash. They proudly proclaimed they cleaned cars to showroom quality. The undercarriage and the tires in particular.

Even without the fire, there was no way for Sherlock to track anything from the vehicles. Moriarty was thorough.

Her phone buzzed again. Another tower. Sherlock was right, it had been nearly constant. They had less than seven hours now, and they still did not know where John was, what the bombing target was, or, if she was honest, anything of use. The detective was singularly focused, tense with the effort of whatever he was thinking, head tilted preposterously far askance. She watched him go back through the footage. There was nothing new to find.

She thought back to that conversation with John. Thought about the conclusion she had drawn that her husband seemed permanently oblivious about. She remembered watching as they had stood on the tarmac two months back, wondering what they were saying to each other. John hadn't told her. He had just mentioned something about baby names. Maybe Sherlock was equally oblivious to the depth of his emotions.

Whatever the status of his emotional recollection, Sherlock was using all of his substantial talents to find John Watson now. He was every inch the cold professional-the sociopath that unnerved the Met officers around them so much.

_That is the best outcome, I suppose. I'd rather he be working at his best, even with the implications._

Her phone buzzed. Another tower. More of an office building really. She should have let Billy filter these first. He was the contact point for the homeless network now. He had time to sort out the absolutely absurd, and the repetitions; she had received the Tower of London four times already. Her phone buzzed. Five times.

They were no closer to saving John than they had been two days earlier in spite of a few minor breaks.

Mary walked out of Lestrade's office and over to a much abused coffee station. Two cups in hand, she returned. She had learned not to set it down on the desk. The cup had to go into the detective's hand if there was going to be any chance of him consuming it. Greg was standing across from her, and it was to him that Sherlock spoke, still pointedly ignoring the proffered beverage.

"Lestrade, has some study been released without my hearing of it that purports the drinking of coffee to decelerate the passage of time? Or is Mrs Watson simply deluding herself in the belief that it will be of any benefit to force me to consume another cup of what your office attempts to pass as drinkable?" Mary released the tension in her shoulders with considerable effort.

"She's just trying to help."

"Questionable."

"This  _is_  her husband we're looking for."

"And yet another hot beverage helps me how?" Sherlock turned from the DI back to Mary, making a smugly derisive noise as he did.

If she had given any consideration to the DI's presence, she would have responded differently. As it was, she calmly sat the cup down and held Sherlock's eyes with her own. "I swear to God Sherlock, if I thought it would help you actually do your damn job, I would bring you cups of cocaine instead of coffee. You have seven hours.  _Find him_."

She spun and stormed away without waiting on his reaction.

Greg chased after her, shouting her name.  _Too bad._   _Too damn bad._ She was walking without a destination, just taking joy in the way the sergeants scattered as she approached. Greg was still shouting, but it was a different voice that halted her.

"Ah, Mrs. Watson, there you are." Mycroft greeted her from a small room off the hall she had been traversing. She stepped inside automatically. He nodded at someone behind her. "Thank you, Detective Inspector, you may go."

"What do you need, Mycroft?" She asked, only tenuously maintaining the facade of Mary Watson.

"Hm, straight to the point, I see. Well I would appreciate you not offering my brother cocaine to begin. But, as I expect not even he would go to such measures at this stage, I suppose your outburst can be forgiven."

"What do you need, Mycroft?" She repeated, sharply.

"Am I not entitled to be concerned for your safety after these past months?"

"Mycroft." Mary was still simmering, and after this third repetition, Mycroft conceded and began his real purpose.

"I have a few questions regarding my brother's mental state. As you have been in the closest proximity to him since John was taken, you are the best barometer of that state." She nodded, once. "I have received reports that Sherlock became non functional for an extended time following the receipt of the initial video from Moriarty. His behavior since has been... erratic. I need hardly remind you that this would be an inopportune moment for Sherlock to suffer a lapse in judgement and rationality."

"What are you asking?"

"His behavior prior to the revelation of Jim Moriarty's continued existence was similarly erratic. He has not been thinking clearly. If he has allowed himself to be compromised by sentimental attachment and concern, it will be necessary to have him removed to a location where his actions would not undermine the ongoing investigation." Mycroft grinned thinly. "So, Mrs Watson, I am here to ask if, to your discriminating eye, Sherlock Holmes is being affected by sentiment."

She hesitated.

There was something in the way he was speaking that alluded to skills from her past. However, if he had not found her past before the wedding - and she was certain background checks had been run by Sherlock's officious brother - then it was unlikely that her past had been found spontaneously. Therefore, someone or something had pointed him in the right direction. Sherlock was the reasonable assumption, but he did not willingly speak to his elder brother.  _Assuming_ , she berated herself,  _that I'm not just overreading him. He may know nothing._ It would not help to suddenly be defending her past in the midst of all this madness. Anything that would endanger the delicate thread of chance she held of finding John alive had to be avoided.

She could not know too much. She could not avoid the question.

"He was." Mary said at last. "He no longer is."

"When?"

"Yesterday. Went into his Mind Palace. Like he hit a switch, and just shut it off." Something shadowed Mycroft's face for a moment. More importantly, his assistant, until that moment silent in the corner, typing continuously on her phone, froze and looked at her boss. A moment later both of them had reclaimed their masks. The typing resumed.

"And his behavior altered after?" Mycroft pressed.

"He's been referring to John as 'the victim' or his 'former flatmate' since. So, no, Mycroft, no reason for you to be alarmed about baby brother going too far. Seems more likely that he won't go far enough this time. Everything you're concerned about? I am quite sure it's been deleted." The only response was a slight tightening of the man's lips. "What? That's what the two of you do, isn't it? John told me all about it one day. Don't worry Mycroft, your brother isn't feeling anything close to sentiment anymore."

Her mobile buzzed again. BT Tower this time. She closed the message, and headed back towards Sherlock.

When she heard the percussion of gunfire and shattering glass, she began to run.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Sherlock shoved Donovan and Lestrade to the ground behind the desk and out of sight of the window. He quickly observed the room.  _Bullet holes in window, low to floor. Bullet holes in ceiling. Steep angle. Injuries? None._

The two of them were still processing the events and attempting to react to it when he slipped out the door, casting his eyes across the main room.

He did not see her.

Three bursts of gunfire had cut through the glass facade of the New Scotland Yard. The trajectory had already told him it was coming from the street below. There was a suspect to be found.  _Where is she? We finally have something to go on!_  He spun, coat swanning out behind him, and shouted impatiently. "Mary!"

"Here!" She was coming at a run.  _Uninjured._  "Where'd it -"

He didn't give her time to finish the question, just took off running, knowing she would follow. The Watson's were efficient like that. He could hear her yelling. Sherlock was across the room and halfway down the stairs before Lestrade's voice penetrated. The DI must have overtaken Mary, as his footfalls rapidly chased after him. Lestrade was yelling. Something about clearing the street. Something about procedure. Something about precedence. Something about getting specialists. Sherlock wasn't listening. Guns required an operator. There was evidence to be found. They would finally have new information.

Lestrade was still yelling, much closer than he had been. Something about a suspicious individual. Something about waiting for a team. He did not stop to listen or process.

Whoever had fired on the building couldn't have gotten far yet. Even in a vehicle. Traffic was too heavy at the moment. On foot, Sherlock knew he could catch them, as long as he caught the beginning of the trail. He was already mentally looking at a map of the area, traffic illuminating possible paths, and looking for locations to hide a getaway vehicle that would not be hindered by the midday jams. He was running too quickly to bother deducing the staircase or the people on it, which is why he had to hesitate at the base of it to recall the exact layout of the building, making sure he was exiting to the correct part of the street. Officers and citizens were flocking up the staircase, or around it, towards the back of the building. The moment's pause allowed Lestrade to catch up.

A distant part of his mind was astounded the DI had run so fast. Another wondered where Mary had gone.  _She was just behind me. No sound of a gunshot. She fell? Incapacitated? Restrained?_

He could see that the street was nearly empty. Everyone had run from the unexpected sound of the gun. There was only one person out there stationary; the rest had shown the common sense to flee. It would only make it harder for him to find the gunman. He had to get out there.

Lestrade caught the back of Sherlock's coat, slowing him another moment, and shouting for Sherlock to wait. Frustrated, he tried to shove the other man off, to disentangle themselves. They were caught in place just past the foot of the stairs, Lestrade scrabbling for purchase on the Belstaff, desperately trying to stop the consulting detective from exiting the building. It took only a moment for Sherlock to slip out of his grasp, and proceed towards the glass two-storied windows of the lobby.

Lestrade had half tackled him, still yelling, when Sherlock's observations of the space made themselves heard. He processed all at once what had been yelled at him. They were the only people still in the lobby. There was only one person on the street. The DI was dragging him away from the street. Sherlock looked up at the man in the street again. Middle aged, dirty blonde hair, facing away from them, trembling. A gun was hanging from his hands. A bulky oversize coat obscured his form. The bright point of red completed the deduction. He did not even have time to comment.

Sherlock stopped fighting so suddenly, it pitched both men on their faces on the lobby floor.

The man outside began to move, but never had a chance.

The explosion shattered the glass wall ahead of him. For just an instant, less time than he could even recall, he saw a spider web of fractures destroy the clear view of the street. Then the initial shockwave had passed, and it all burst. A blast of heat and broken glass slammed into them.

There was a searing flood of bright light that seemed to come from inside his skull.

He blinked it away, dazed and bewildered by the shrill screaming that was echoing in his head. Then Sherlock was struggling to his feet the second the high ringing sound allowed him the leeway to think. There was a weight over him, a person.

There was shouting all around him, many voices. There was a cold and assertive tone giving crisp orders.

The weight moved, he was turned to his back, and he frowned at the sight above him. Mycroft, Anthea, and Mary were looking down at him in disdain. They were talking at him, not that he could hear it. Mycroft in particular seemed rankled.  _How did Mycroft get here so quickly? Concussion? No. Dust still settling, no more than a few minutes then. He must have already been in the building. Field work? What is he yelling about? Much easier if you would move your lips more, brother. Ah, hearing is coming back._

"...or do you need to be confined?" his brother concluded.

He lurched upwards to sit, hands braced against his knees to breathe. "I'm sure that won't be necessary." he sneered at Mycroft, a safe non-committal answer since he had no idea what the other end of the ultimatum had been. He hid the weakness in his muscles by surveying the lobby before trying to stand.

_Haven't moved me. Paramedics have not arrived yet. Ridiculous, we are IN Scotland Yard. Windows blown out. Fairly small charge, no shrapnel, not intending to cause extensive damage, just a warning, a wake up call._ There was a blaring sound he had initially disregarded.  _Car alarms. Yes, everything on the street. A dozen cars with windows blown out. Only one with passengers. Dead? No, standing by a sergeant. Other cars were empty. Traffic was shielded by the parked cars._

_Other injured? Myself. Lestrade was beside me. Where? Ah._

Lestrade was laying on a blanket next to Donovan a few feet away. Talking, and therefore conscious, any injury he had sustained was mild. They had been the only people still in the lobby when the bomb detonated.

_The bomb._

_The victim._

_Was that?_

He snapped his head back to look at Mary. She was holding up barely more than a veil of her expected persona. Surely Mycroft, likely even his brother's PA had noticed it. To the rest of the Yarders she just looked anxious and close to tears. It was an excellent tack to take, boiling anger was remarkably close to crying. He reached out a hand and she helped get him on his feet.

Mycroft announced his displeasure. Sherlock ignored him.

Mary flicked a clinical eye over him. Seeing what Sherlock already knew-a few lacerations, glass shards across his back and torso, mild concussive trauma, a dull ache that would be agony within a few hours- she declared, "You're going to have to rest later."

"Not now."

"No." They were already walking away from his thoroughly displeased kin. "What do you need to see?" She asked, staying close enough to catch his weight if he wavered, but not so close as to be obvious. The expression of absolute support she was giving him was memorized and filed for later study. They were just inside the remaining framework of the lobby windows. Interior to that line the debris was glass and metal; exterior, it was slicked over with blood and bits of person. There was a largish pile of something bloody against a car.  _What's left of the head._

"We need to find his shoes."

"Right." Mary took a step forward, ready to play hide and seek with footwear in a blast radius of human flesh and shattered glass. That was a far as she got before turning to face Sherlock again, one hand tight around his arm, holding him in place. "Sherlock, was it-did you see-"

He shook his head. "Someone else, though close enough visually they will want to DNA test the remains. They'll need a verified reference source. There are several at the flat."

"You have DNA samples for him?"

"Of course." He never could understand how common minds failed to see the logic of such things.

"Right." She set his arm against him purposefully, and he took the instruction. Mary stepped away, and he stayed. The pain from the blast was catching up with him faster than anticipated. Mycroft was suddenly at his side, and loathe as he was to admit it, Sherlock found himself leaning some of his weight into the man.

_Not now, Mycroft. Not a word. Not yet._

"Internal injuries?" Mycroft asked in a clipped neutral tone.

"No."

"Pain level?"

"Rising."

"I'm sure that whatever you require can readily be procured."

"Unnecessary." He half-snarled, then acknowledged his state, and amended "Presently unnecessary."

"We will need to have an extended conversation regarding recent events, Sherlock, with particular regard to the identity of your current compatriot, and to your ongoing emotional statusthe state of your...sentimentality." They mutually glared.

"AfterLater."

"As soon as this...round...has concluded then." Mycroft gestured with that ubiquitous umbrella. "I'll have someone come around with what you need. The lab here is at your disposal. And Sherlock, do try to find the target before the next bomb goes off. Until this evening, brother mine." Mycroft walked away, Anthea a silent shadow trailing him. They paused a moment beside Lestrade, then commandeered the Chief Superintendent and vanished with him.

Smoothing the way for him to continue the investigation.

"Sherlock," Mary had reappeared beside him, "forensics is bringing the shoes to the lab."

"You allowed them to take charge of that?!"

"Appearances to maintain. They wouldn't let me touch them, and they don't give a damn that you want them. Now shut up, and come with me."

Her hand on his arm was more controlling than he guessed, and he soon found himself sitting in Anderson's old lab. "This wasn't the primary attack, was it Sherlock? I thought not. This isn't related to the fairy tale. This isn't a tower. No one was killed, except for the owner of the shoes that I just found for you, still with bits of foot by the wayfull of feet."

"No." He confirmed, sinking into the chair she had guided him towards. "Has your ridiculous need to see every tower in the city of London brought you any revelation?"

"Your homeless networks wants me to believe it is the Tower of London we're looking for. They've sent it six times, now." She shook her head, and peeled the Belstaff off his shoulders. The abrupt sensation of shredded skin informed him of It was only then that he recognized how much damage the glass had caused. "This is ruined. As is your shirt. If you will sit still until forensics brings down the shoes, I can takeget the glass out and get everything cleaned. I don't think you need stitches, but I want'm going to need to glue several of them."

He gestured impatiently for her to start. He had more clothing, and this would be faster than waiting on some incompetent paramedic.

_Six hours. No leads. Was Moriarty lazy enough to leave evidence on the shoes? Has he been keeping all of the kidnapped at the same location? We are running out of time._

"Yes. We  _are_  running out of time," Mary said, causing him to turn sharply at her perception. "And you are making stupid reckless choices. If you had listened before running off, you would have realized that man was a bomber. But you were too excited to follow the possibility of a lead and Lestrade is the only reason you're still alive. We don't have time for you to be so stupid. So. Talk. Until. You. Solve it. What are we looking for?"

Sherlock swallowed, closed his eyes, concentrated. He was interrupted by doubts about the unknown history of the woman currently peeling a bloody shirt off of his chest. Mycroft's comment had raised them once more. There was too much in question. There were too many variables to account for all of the possible outcomes of her potential plans and alliances. He didn't even know what her plan was.

_Yes I do._

_She wants John back. Everything else is being done in pursuit of that goal. Trust her?_

_She's an asset._

_Trust her._

"This wasn't part of the larger story he's telling. This was something else. I won't know what until I am able to examine the shoes and any post mortem findings from what remains of the body. Any available CCTV will give us at least a partial picture of the events preceding the explosion also be necessary. Moriarty does not deviate from his pattern like this. Therefore this is not a clue or a prelude to the anticipated attack. A show of power or a demonstration of his scope. Which returns us to the previous question of the approaching bombing. There is a location under threat. The bombing will occur within the next six hours. Unlike this instance, the suicide bomber will be the kidnapping victim we have previously established as Dr John Watson." He stopped, simultaneously wondering at the rumble in the foundation of his Mind Palace, and pondering new angles to approach the puzzle. "It isn't about him. He's a diversion, not the actual puzzle."

_Nothing, not even a whisper about the location under threat. That is always what the information leads me to. Excepting the times when the puzzle was the identity of the victim, the game revolves around the location._

_The victim is known._

_What do I know about the location?_

_There is the fairy tale._

_Rapunzel in the tower._

_The story only alludes to_ _a_ _the_   _single location._

_The tower is where the victim is held._

_If not? Yes, what if he isn't held there? Is the tower the target?_

_New perspective._

_Narrow the field._

He hissed at a sudden burst of pain. "Sorry," Mary muttered and dropped the shard of glass onto the counter.

_Narrow the field._

_The story. What is Moriarty's goal? His threat?_ _To burn me. Within the story?_ _To blind me. How?_

_Physically? No. he doesn't want me handicapped like that. He would simply have me killed._

_Emotionally?_

_Irrelevant._

_Intellectually?_

_Declaw his only competition? No. Again, he would simply have me killed._

_Ah. Ohhh._

_Oh that's clever. That's Moriarty._

_It isn't the singular. It isn't a threat to blind_ me _. Not to blind the person attempting the rescue. That's too small. No. The threat is larger. All those against him. How? How can he blind the British Government? It isn't literal. What is the metaphor for blindness. Ignorance? False information? What is the worst isolation and weakness within the context? Blindness. Adapted to today?_

_Electrical blackouts? No._

_Telecommunications. Oh you are being clever_   _today,_   _Jim._

"Mary." She stopped what she was doing: gluing shut the smaller cuts, and waited for him to continue. There was a small mound of glass shards on the counter. She was still, glue in one hand and tweezers in the other. "How many communications towers are there in London?"

"Dozens. Why? Your network sent me what must be all of them. Do you think that-? You- Oh. Wait."

He watched as she retrieved her mobile and started swiping through photos. Her eyes were alight and she was moving with an energized purpose beyond what she had shown in days.

She had it.

He was less than patient as she continued her deduction.  _Is this what it feels like? Listening to me? Not knowing yet?_ She discarded photos rapidly. Not fast enough.

"Mary, what!"

A slow smile of success bloomed across her face.

"What? Tell me!"

She turned the phone to face him, face split with an enormous grin. On the screen was an image of a towering structure extending out of a low building. Around the base of the vertical portion was an enormous snarl of razor wire, a precaution against vandals and idle youths that had just been installed. A veritable modern bramble bush. It was outdated but an icon of the London skyline. The tower controlled a huge swath of communications in London, and as of last year, routed ninety percent of the CCTV feeds. It was less than a mile from Baker Street.

He looked up at her and returned the grin as he dialed his phone.

"Mycroft, we have it. The BT Tower."

For the first time in weeks, he was ahead of Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a few liberties with the physical structure of the NSY, and as far as I (and google earth) know there is no razor wire around the BT tower. I feel no guilt for fictionalizing these things.  
> Thank you for reading, and I always love to see comments and critiques.  
> Hopefully the next chapter will go smoothly and post next week.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so, This is my first fic in nearly a decade. 0_o  
> I know its fairly bright and breezy at the moment. The ratings are for later, but whats down the road for these boys is..... well I like to think that GRRM would call me a sick fuck if he read this.  
> It hasn't been beta'ed except by me, nor has it been Britpicked  
> By all means, bring the critique.


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